Angelmass. Part 51

"We've quartered the region looking for s.h.i.+ps," Campbell said. "So far, we haven't found any indication that there's anything out there, let alone an organized task force."

"But you yourself admit that the glare may be was.h.i.+ng out the view," Telthorst countered. "I still maintain that it doesn't make sense for them to not to have at least some working s.h.i.+ps out there."

"Show me," Lles.h.i.+ ordered, crossing over to his station and sitting down. He swiveled his chair around to the main screen just as Campbell pulled up the telescope image of Angelma.s.s.

It was every bit as awesome as he had expected. He'd seen one other black hole in his travels; a much larger, much calmer one, sitting quietly in s.p.a.ce like an invisible spider in an unseen web, content to draw matter spiraling into the darkness lurking behind the veil of its event horizon.

Angelma.s.s was the exact opposite. A tiny pinp.r.i.c.k in the fabric of s.p.a.ce, it spat out light and radiation and particles with all the fury and power of a small star. The radiation drove away any bit of matter or solar wind that ventured too close, flas.h.i.+ng or ionizing all matter farther away. With the sunscreens blocking out the brightest part of the central core, the visual effect was that of a large dead spot in s.p.a.ce surrounded by a wide band of hazy light. Like the rings of Saturn or Demolian, perhaps.

Or like a halo. A halo around Angelma.s.s.

With an effort, Lles.h.i.+ drew his mind away from poetic images and back to the hard, cold reality of war. Campbell was right: there were no signs of s.h.i.+ps out there.

Unfortunately, so was Telthorst. The halo glare of ionized gas was just enough to possibly conceal fighter-sized craft running dark or stealthed.

Fortunately, the solution was simple enough. "Do you have orbital data for the Seraph catapult?" he asked.

"We have the general data," Campbell said. "It's an equatorial orbit, a couple hundred klicks up. We can get it more exactly once we get closer."

"Do so," Lles.h.i.+ ordered. "When we arrive we'll take up an orbit directly behind it, as far back as we can get without losing visual contact. Will that be acceptable, Adjutor?" he added, swiveling his chair to face Telthorst.

"I suppose so," Telthorst said. "At least, for now."

Lles.h.i.+ glanced at Campbell, caught the brief sour tightening of the other's lips. Campbell knew it, too: Telthorst would never be satisfied. With anything.

"SeTO, put the tactical back up," he said, settling back in his chair. "Let's go in."

It was nearly 10:30, and the stars were s.h.i.+ning dimly through the haze of the Magasca city lights, when Chandris arrived at the Government Building.

She made her way up the fifteen wide marble steps leading to the main entrance, grousing at each one along the way. It had been over two hours now since Kosta had pulled his disappearing act from the hospital, and a long and weary process of elimination had finally brought her here. If he wasn't inside, she was completely out of ideas.

But she had a feeling he was. A very bad feeling. Kosta, n.o.ble and idealistic and stupid, had already talked once about turning himself in. Now, still caked with his own blood from Trilling's attack, he'd apparently gone ahead and taken the plunge.

All of it to protect her and Hanan and Ornina, undoubtedly. Never mind that they'd all agreed he should keep his mouth shut for now. Never mind that the threat of Angelma.s.s far outweighed whatever anyone might think the Pax could possibly be doing with or through him.

If there was anything left after High Senator Forsythe finished with him, she told herself darkly, she was going to personally feed it to the fish.

At this hour of the night, of course, the outer door was locked. One more annoyance to add to her list. She had it open in thirty seconds and slipped inside. The door leading into the main part of the building from the reception area was also locked. She got through that one even faster.

She had expected the place to be dark and essentially deserted. To her surprise, the lights were blazing, with a fair number of people still buzzing about the halls and offices. All of them seemed to be hurrying or talking together in urgent, hushed tones, some doing both at once.

It was highly disconcerting, rather like walking into a bank with a cutting torch and set of burglar tools, only to discover a police convention being held on the premises. But old habits quickly kicked in, turning on the air of arrogant importance that had gotten her into many places where she didn't belong, past people who should have known better. A glance at the directory as she pa.s.sed, and she was on her way to the fifth floor and Forsythe's temporary office complex.

Deep down, she was still hoping that Kosta had somehow come to his senses in time and kept his ident.i.ty secret. But the more people she strode past, and the more bits of conversation she caught, the more it became clear that these people weren't here so late just for the overtime pay. They were angry, worried, and frightened.

And the word "Pax" kept coming up.

Which meant that Chandris was too late. Kosta had indeed confessed; and chances were he'd already been transferred to some secure prison somewhere. Like the two hours of searching that had gone before it, this little side trip was starting to look very much like a waste of time.

Still, as long as she was here, she might as well keep going. At the very least, maybe she could shake loose some information from some gullible clerk. Arriving at Forsythe's office suite, she stepped up to the plate gla.s.s wall that separated it from the corridor.

She had expected this to be the center of all the activity she'd pa.s.sed through on her way here-after all, unmasking a Pax spy was the kind of publicity coup that even a High Senator didn't stumble across every day. If Forsythe was any kind of politician he ought to be milking it for all it was worth.

But once again, her expectations turned out to be oddly off target. The office suite was only dimly lit, and virtually empty.

For a moment she stood outside the gla.s.s, peering in. The suite was arranged a little like Amberson Toomes's office complex: a large outer area with a handful of doors leading from the back walls into what were presumably private offices. Where Toomes's outer office had been the province of only the one receptionist, though, the room now facing her was crowded with a dozen desks and workstations. A common work area, then. Briefly, she wondered how much of the s.p.a.ce was Forsythe's and how much was controlled by other local governmental agencies. Each of the doors at the back had a nameplate, but she was too far away and the light too dim for her to read them.

There were only three people in the room. Two of them stood flanking one of the rear doors, their postures and the guns belted to their sides marking them as guards. Chandris had never seen these particular men before, though the insignia on their jackets marked them as local governmental security officers.

The third person, however, was a very familiar face. He was sitting slightly hunched over at one of the desks, the glow from the computer display playing across a very troubled expression.

It was Forsythe's aide, Ronyon.

There was no way she could pop the door lock, not with two bored guards watching her every move.

Fortunately, she didn't need to. She started to knock on the gla.s.s, remembered in time that Ronyon was deaf, and instead gave a sweeping wave.

The movement caught Ronyon's eye. He looked up, and abruptly the frown lines on his face cleared into a kind of eager hope. He scrambled to his feet, an awkward-looking motion with someone that big, and hurried across the room to the door. He unfastened the lock and pulled the door open, his free hand gesturing excitedly.

"Wait a minute," Chandris said, holding up a hand as she stepped into the suite. "Not so fast," she added, making sure to enunciate the words clearly. Ronyon could read lips, she knew, but she wasn't sure how well he could do in the suite's semidarkness.

Still, he would certainly be better reading her lips than she would be reading his hands. She'd leafed through a signing dictionary a couple of days ago, while sitting in the Gazelles storage room waiting for Kosta to try to steal the Daviees' spare angel, and she had all the signs memorized. But knowing all the words of a foreign language didn't necessarily mean she could understand a native who was speaking it. This was likely to be a long process. "Come on, let's sit down," she invited, taking his arm and coaxing him away from the door.

Okay, he signed, letting her lead him to the nearest work station. Chandris would have preferred to go back to his desk, so that she could see what he'd been reading on his computer, but it was a little too close to the guards for comfort. Even if they couldn't read Ronyon's sign language, they would probably be able to hear her side of the conversation from back there.

And she was beginning to suspect that this was one conversation she didn't want anyone eavesdropping on.

She sat Ronyon down behind the desk and pulled another chair up to face him, making sure her back was to the guards so as to m.u.f.fle her words even more. "Now," she said. "Slowly, please. Tell me what's happened."

Mr. Pirbazari brought Jereko in here awhile ago, Ronyon signed, obediently moving his hands with exaggerated deliberation. He said he was a spy!

Chandris fought back a grimace. So she'd been right. "Did he say how they found out?" she asked.

I don't know, Ronyon signed. I think Mr. Forsythe just figured it out. He's real smart.

"Yes, I know," Chandris agreed. Half-right, anyway; it didn't look like Kosta had turned himself in.

And if he hadn't, then any n.o.ble statements he might have made about Chandris and the Daviees being innocent bystanders went straight out the window. If Forsythe came out of that office and saw her here, he was likely to jump to a completely wrong conclusion. "Is he in there with Mr. Forsythe now?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Ronyon's face puckered in a frown. No, Mr. Forsythe isn't here, he signed. Jereko is just in there by himself.

It was Chandris's turn to frown. "He's alone?" she repeated, resisting the impulse to turn and look behind her. Forsythe wouldn't lock a Pax spy in his own office and then just walk off and leave him there for the night, would he?

But Ronyon nodded. Mr. Forsythe talked to him for awhile, and then Mr. Pirbazari went in, and they took a cot and some food in, and then they all left. And one of the workmen came and turned the lock around on the door, he added, his face lighting up briefly with remembered interest.

The memory faded, his face creasing with concern again. What are they going to do to Jereko? Are they going to hurt him?

"I don't know," Chandris said, her mind still back behind her in that office. So those men were guarding a lone prisoner, not simply standing by while he was being interrogated.

But that still didn't make any sense. Surely Magasca had enough real prison s.p.a.ce for even such a supposedly high-profile criminal like a master Pax spy. There was no reason Forsythe should have to turn his office into a makes.h.i.+ft cell.

Unless the High Senator didn't want him talking to anyone else.

And then it all fell together, and she found herself looking at Ronyon with sudden new understanding. Of course. Kosta wouldn't have wanted to go to jail-he wanted to get out to Angelma.s.s, and there would be no chance of wheedling his way there once he was officially charged. He would have tried to talk Forsythe into holding off on an official arrest while he went and did his experiment, probably n.o.bly offering to turn himself back in when it was finished.

And when that hadn't worked, he had played his trump card.

The fact that Forsythe wasn't wearing his angel.

"So Mr. Forsythe talked to Jereko," she said. "Did he say anything to you when he came out?"

He told me not to tell anyone about Jereko, Ronyon signed, his face suddenly going uncertain halfway through the sentence. Uh-oh. I wasn't supposed to tell you this, was I?

"It's okay," Chandris said hastily. "I'm sure he just meant not to tell anyone who didn't already know."

Ronyon blinked. You already knew?

Chandris felt her throat tighten, seeing a deep hole suddenly open up in front of her. Admitting to Ronyon that she knew about Kosta might get him to talk more freely, but it would also d.a.m.n her as an accessory to espionage if he ever repeated that to Forsythe.

But she had no choice. Not if she was going to help Kosta. "Yes, I knew," she said. "He told me a couple of days ago, when we were discussing what to do about Angelma.s.s."

Ronyon s.h.i.+vered, his shoulders hunching like he was trying to make himself smaller. That's a bad place, he signed, his eyes looking haunted. It scared me a lot.

"It scares me, too," Chandris a.s.sured him. "And Jereko, and a lot of other people."

She leaned toward him slightly. "That's why Jereko and I need to go out there. We need to find out some things about it, so that no one will have to be scared anymore. Can you help us?"

His face puckered even more. I don't know, he signed, the words starting to come out faster in his agitation. Mr. Forsythe told me not to tell anyone, and now I have. If I help you, he's going to be real mad at me.

"He'll be mostly mad at me," Chandris a.s.sured him. "If you get in trouble, I'll tell him it was my fault, that you didn't have anything to do with it."

He peered down at her hands, his face twisted almost like he was going to cry. But that wouldn't be true, he signed. You aren't making me do anything. Mr. Forsythe says when somebody does something wrong they should take the blame themselves.

"He's right," Chandris conceded. Except for Forsythe himself, she added silently, the thought of his fake angel pendant flitting through her mind. But it was no use bringing that up. Ronyon was clearly a willing accomplice to the fraud, which meant that Forsythe must have spun him some sort of story to make the whole thing seem legitimate. Trying to argue the point now would only confuse him.

I mean, I want to help, Ronyon went on, signing so fast now she could hardly keep up. You and Jereko helped me a lot when we were out on the s.h.i.+p and I got scared. But Mr. Forsythe told me not to tell anybody- "Yes, I know," Chandris said, touching his hand soothingly. "It's all right. It's my fault-I shouldn't have asked you. I'm sorry."

He blinked. That's all right, he signed, almost shyly. I'm not mad at you. I like you.

She smiled. "I like you too, Ronyon," she said, and meant it. There was something about his earnest, childlike innocence that touched a chord deep inside her. She would go a long way, through a lot of pain, rather than deliberately hurt him. "Don't worry, it'll be all right. You and I will be fine."

And Jereko, too?

"Jereko, too," she said, nodding.

His eyes searched her face for a moment. Then, the creases vanished from his forehead and he smiled. Okay, he signed. I believe you.

"Good," Chandris said, feeling a pang of guilt. Did it count as a lie, she wondered uncomfortably, if you had all the good intentions in the world, but at the same time didn't have the foggiest idea how you were going to make a promise work? "Do you know when Mr. Forsythe will be coming back in the morning?"

He said nine o'clock, Ronyon signed. Are you going to talk to him about Jereko?

She reached out and took his hands. "Thank you," she said quietly, squeezing them once and then standing up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He smiled up at her, exactly like a child who'd just been told he'd been a good boy. Good night, Chandris, he signed. Happy dreams.

She swallowed. "You, too, Ronyon."

He was still smiling as she left.

When Forsythe's presence on Seraph first came to light, just after the Gazelle's near-fatal brush with Angelma.s.s, the Governor had offered the distinguished visitors top-cla.s.s hotel rooms as well as temporary office s.p.a.ce. Forsythe had accepted the office, but had turned down the accommodations. His s.h.i.+p was just as comfortable, nearly as convenient to the Government Building, and much easier to keep nosy media types away from.

He sat alone now in the control room of the s.h.i.+p, a drink gripped in his hand, gazing out the landing viewport at the starry sky overhead. It was nearly three in the morning, and he was as bone-weary as he had ever been in his life.

And, though he would never admit it to anyone, as frightened.

EmDef was doing its best-he had to give them that. In the seven hours since the Pax invasion they had pulled together an amazing a.s.sortment of fighting s.h.i.+ps, armed patrol craft, and even a few research and weather satellites that could be modified into floating weapons platforms. Well before the Komitadji arrived over Seraph, all of the planet's defenses would be ready.

And none of it would do a single bit of good.

Forsythe sighed, a dark and lonely sound in the deserted control room. The Komitadji was just too big, too powerful, too indestructible. EmDef could throw everything they had against it and still not make a significant reduction in its offensive capabilities. When the dust cleared, the Komitadji would still be there.

And it would be sitting in orbit above a completely helpless world.

Forsythe sipped at his drink without tasting it, visualizing that bleak scenario. Earlier, at the battle by the net, the Komitadji's commander had destroyed a h.e.l.lfire missile rather than let it unnecessarily demolish one of the catapult s.h.i.+ps. Would he show similar restraint and mercy toward a captured planet full of civilians?

Or would the level of restraint instead be tied to how quickly the vanquished were willing to surrender? Would the level of punitive action rise with each dent the EmDef forces put in the Komitadji's hull?

Forsythe had ordered that the people of Seraph not be informed of the impending attack, arguing in part that they might as well get one last good night's sleep. Would they understand his reasoning this coming afternoon when the truth abruptly rose up and slapped them in the face?

More importantly, would the EmDef men and women who would be getting no sleep at all tonight understand if he abruptly threw all their hard work away and surrendered Seraph to the Pax without a shot being fired?

What was a High Senator's duty here? To satisfy pride by allowing as much damage as possible to be inflicted on both sides? To present the money-wors.h.i.+ping Pax with a Pyhrric victory by forcing them to destroy much of what they had come here to conquer?

Or was his duty instead to accept the inevitable, present the enemy a fully functional world, and protect the lives of the people he'd sworn to serve?

Reaching to his chest, he fingered the angel pendant hanging there, his mind drifting back to all those High Senate meetings he'd attended on Uhuru. Irritating though he'd found his angel-wearing colleagues to be, he couldn't help but notice their overall calmness and a.s.surance. They were utterly convinced that their methods were right, that the consequences of their actions would be what was best for the people of the Empyrean.

Had that calm been merely an illusion? A side effect of the sheep-like att.i.tude the angels created?

Or had there been more to it than that? Did the angels in fact bestow a degree of genuine wisdom upon their wearers?

Forsythe didn't know. And it was looking more and more like he would never have the chance to find out. Even if he took the angel back from Ronyon tonight, whatever effect it might have on him couldn't possibly be fast enough to give him anything useful before the Komitadji arrived.

But it would at least short-circuit anything Kosta might say.

He snorted derisively under his breath. Who exactly was he kidding? Nothing would close Kosta's mouth. The kid had his own agenda-a Pax agenda-and the minute he got within squealing range of someone's ear, it would all come out. High Senator Arkin Forsythe, honored official of the Empyrean, had deliberately committed a felony.