Chaos and Order: The Gap Into Madness Page 4

  It followed impeccably that Morn Hyland was irrelevant.

  Yet the DA director found that he couldn’t let the matter rest there. It reminded him of other questions which he hadn’t been able to answer.

  You need me, but you blew it.

  One was this: Why had Warden Dios decided to sacrifice Ensign Hyland? The UMCP director had no history of such decisions. Indeed, he had often displayed a distressing resemblance to Min Donner in situations involving loyalty toward his subordinate personnel. Hashi had presented arguments which he considered convincing; but he was under no illusions about Warden’s ability to ignore those reasons, if he chose. So why had the director made such an atypical decision?

  Had he acceded to Hashi’s reasons because he had already met similar arguments from Holt Fasner—or perhaps even been given direct orders?

  Certainly a living Morn Hyland represented a palpable threat to the UMC CEO. To that extent, she might conceivably constitute a kaze of a peculiar kind. Within her she carried information which was undeniably explosive.

  As Hashi had determined during his interrogation of Angus Thermopyle, she could testify that Com-Mine Security bore no fault for Starmaster’s death. And she could testify that Angus was guiltless of the crime for which he’d been arrested and convicted. However, the still-recent passage of the Preempt Act had been founded squarely on those two accusations: that Com-Mine Security had performed or permitted sabotage against Starmaster; and that Security had conspired with Captain Thermopyle to steal Station supplies.

  The Preempt Act was the capstone of Holt Fasner’s ambitions for the UMCP. If the perceived reasons for the Act’s passage were revealed as inaccurate, or if DA’s hand in the fabrication of those reasons were exposed, the Act itself might be reconsidered. The web of power which Fasner had so carefully woven for his personal cops might begin to unravel.

  Hashi didn’t doubt that Holt Fasner wanted Morn Hyland dead.

  So was Warden Dios simply following the Dragon’s instructions? Or was he playing some deeper game?

  This brought Hashi to another question which had troubled him for some time.

  Why had Warden Dios insisted on “briefing” Joshua alone immediately prior to Trumpet’s departure? Joshua was nothing more than a welded cyborg: a piece of equipment in human form. Since when did the director of the United Mining Companies Police waste his time “briefing” pieces of equipment?

  I don’t care what happens to you.

  Hashi couldn’t persuade himself to stop worrying about Nick Succorso’s flare.

  His chronometer continued to tick threateningly onward. The longer he waited, the harder-pressed he would be to account for his delay. And that in turn conveyed other dangers. Under pressure he might find it necessary to admit his dealings with Captain Scroyle and Free Lunch. If those dealings became, in a manner of speaking, “public” between him and his director, he might find his freedom to offer Captain Scroyle new contracts restricted. In addition every passing minute increased the chance that Free Lunch might be forced to move beyond reach of the nearest listening post, which would prevent her from receiving any new offers—at least temporarily. Hashi would lose his opportunity to put Captain Scroyle back to work.

  He permitted himself an intimate sigh of relief when his intercom chimed to inform him that Koina Hannish wished to see him.

  He didn’t admit her right away, however. Instead he took a moment to calm himself so that he could be sure none of his private urgency showed. Only when he was certain that he would give nothing away did he tell his receptionist to let the new UMCP Director of Protocol in.

  As befitted a PR director, Koina Hannish lived on the opposite end of the emotive spectrum from Lane Harbinger. Where Lane emitted tension like a shout, Koina breathed an air of quiet confidence. Immaculately tailored and tended, she conveyed almost by reflex the impression that every word she spoke must be true, by virtue of the simple fact that it came from her mouth. Hashi supposed that most men would have called her beautiful. Under any circumstances he could imagine, she would make a better PR director than fulsome, false Godsen Frik ever had. She would have risen to her present position long ago if Godsen hadn’t held the job on Holt Fasner’s authority.

  “I don’t like this, Director,” she said frankly as soon as the office door was closed and sealed. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Hashi smiled benignly. “Director yourself, Koina Hannish. I will not waste your time by thanking you for this visit. You are desperately busy, I know. What is it that ‘doesn’t feel right’ to you?”

  She settled herself upright in a chair across the desk from him before she answered, “Seeing you like this. Talking to you. Working for you.”

  “My dear Koina—” As an affectation, Hashi pushed his glasses up on his nose. They were nearly opaque with smears and scratches: he knew from careful study that they made him look like he was going blind. But he didn’t need them; his vision was fine without refractive help. He had trained himself long ago to see past them. “We have worked together for years. You have never expressed disaffection for our relationship before.”

  “I know.” A small frown tightened her brows over the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never felt this way before—not until I got your summons. I’ve been asking myself why. I think it’s because until today my nominal boss was Godsen Frik. Just between us, I always considered him ‘slime,’ to use one of his words. He symbolized everything that’s wrong with this organization—by which I mean Holt Fasner. Working for you seemed—well, more honorable than working for him. Even though I was stuck in Protocol, I was able to help the real job of the UMCP go ahead with as little interference from him as possible.

  “But I began to have my doubts after I saw the tapes of the director’s video conference with the GCES—was it just yesterday? You did most of the talking, Godsen wasn’t on camera at all, but I thought I heard his voice every time you opened your mouth.” A timbre of anger which Koina made no effort to conceal roughened her tone. “Hearing you explain how you sold that ensign, Morn Hyland, so your Nick Succorso could use her any way he wanted to, I felt like I was witnessing the collapse of everything we’re supposed to stand for.

  “When the director offered me this job, I wanted to turn it down.

  “But that was before he talked to me,” she went on quickly. “I’d never had a private conversation with him before. Until then, I hadn’t felt how much”—she groped for the right word—“how much conviction he conveys. And he gave me the cleanest mandate I’ve ever had. Cleaner than anything Godsen Frik ever touched, cleaner than working for you. If you can believe him, he wants me to do my job right.”

  She made a small, vexed gesture, as if she were frustrated by the inadequacies of her account. “I can’t explain it any better than that. All of a sudden,” she concluded straight into Hashi’s gaze, “reporting to you behind his back seems—disloyal.”

  “That is his great gift,” the DA director responded equably, “his ability to inspire loyalty. If you fear that you alone are vulnerable to such suasion, only look at Min Donner.” He was engaged in a test of suasion himself; a challenge he relished. “But permit me to offer another consideration which you may have missed, and to tell you a fact which you could not have known.

  “The consideration is this. I, too, have felt the force of Warden Dios’ charisma. I, too, find myself drawn to loyalty.” This was not a notably honest assertion. Nevertheless it contained an adequate level of factual accuracy. “I ask you to serve me in Protocol, not to undermine my director in any way, but to help me ensure that my own service is as apt as possible.

  “As for the fact,” he continued so that she wouldn’t question what he’d just said, “it is simply that our disloyal Godsen was present when the director and I addressed the GCES. If you had seen his face, you would, I believe, have found his consternation delicious. I hardly need inform you that he had no scruples concerning the use made of Ensign Hyland. In his master’s name, however
, he had every conceivable scruple concerning the revelation of that use. In no other way could the director have so plainly declared his independence of the great worm.”

  There Hashi stopped. He didn’t need to add, And I with him. Koina had already demonstrated her grasp on the importance of Hashi Lebwohl’s role in the director’s video conference.

  “I see.” Her frown seemed to turn inward as she scrutinized this information. “Thanks for pointing that out. I should have caught the distinction myself. But I was so horrified by what I was hearing, I didn’t explore all the implications.”

  Still smiling, Hashi let his glasses slide down to their more familiar position on his nose. If he’d been a man who kept score, he would have added several points to his column.

  With a small shake and a deliberate smoothing of her forehead, Koina brought herself back to the present. “Why did you send for me?” Only a hint of reserve in her tone suggested that she still held any doubts about her relationship with the DA director. “Is there something you want me to do?”

  Hashi spread his hands like a man whose soul was as open as his palms. “I seek only information. My appetite for facts is bottomless, as you know. I am something of a dragon myself in that regard.” He enjoyed joking about the truth. “One of my questions you have already answered. I wished to know the nature of your ‘mandate’ as Director of Protocol. All well and good. I approve unqualifiedly. I hope only that you are willing to tell me what transpires in your department.

  “What actions has the GCES taken? What requests have been made of Protocol? What are the most pressing matters awaiting your attention?” Deliberately he spoke to her, not as his agent, but as his equal. “Will you tell me?”

  She held his gaze. “If you’ll tell me why you’re asking. I mean, aside from your ‘bottomless appetite for facts.’ ”

  On the spur of the moment, Hashi decided that he’d been amiable long enough. He permitted himself a sigh. With the air of a man whose patience was running out, he replied, “Koina, you disappoint me. Have you forgotten that Godsen was murdered, or that the venerable Captain Sixten Vertigus has been attacked? On whom do you think the primary responsibility for the investigation of these crimes devolves? Oh, on Enforcement Division Security, naturally. But Min Donner’s otherwise admirable cadres are as ham-fisted as they are diligent. The true work of investigation must be done by Data Acquisition.” The natural wheeze of his voice took on a waspish buzz. “I seek clues, Director Hannish. For that reason, your own labors, like any other activity here or on Suka Bator, are of signal interest to me.

  “If you doubt me, ask Chief of Security Mandich what he has learned concerning Godsen’s murder which my people did not uncover for him.”

  As he spoke, a slight flush came and went on her cheekbones. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I take your point. I think I do know something that you might find useful.”

  More briskly, she continued, “You can guess most of what I’ve been dealing with. Maxim Igensard has been burning the channels with demands. So have Sigurd Carsin and Vest Martingale. Every five minutes I get another abject appeal from Abrim Len.

  “I can’t answer any of them right now. I want to tell them the truth, and I don’t know what that is, any more than I did yesterday. But Data Storage is working on it. In a few hours, I should have every file that isn’t locked away under the director’s personal clearance on my desk.”

  Her gaze said clearly, Even yours, Director Lebwohl.

  This didn’t trouble Hashi, however. He’d always been chary of trusting his work to Data Storage. Most of it was still held by Processing—and so walled around with clearance protocols and access routines that it was well-nigh unreachable.

  “On top of that,” Koina said, “Chief Mandich wants me to deal with Suka Bator for him. Ever since they let that second kaze through, he and GCES Security can’t seem to talk to each other without yelling.

  “But there is”—she slowed thoughtfully—“one other matter. I’ve received a flare from Captain Vertigus. Personal and urgent. He wanted to warn me”—she swallowed a moment of discomfort—“that I might be next.”

  Almost involuntarily, Hashi raised his eyebrows. “‘Next’?”

  Koina didn’t hesitate. “Next to be attacked.”

  “Ah.” The DA director felt suddenly that he had stepped off the surface of reality into the near-infinite realm of subatomic possibilities. “And how does he account for his apprehension?”

  “He says,” she answered with admirable firmness, “that the next time the GCES meets—which should be in about thirty-six hours, unless President Len panics again—he’s going to introduce a Bill of Severance to take the UMCP away from the UMC. He wants to make us a branch of the Council. He thinks he was attacked to try to stop him. And he thinks Godsen was killed because whoever sent those kazes assumed PR must be working with him. Which makes me a logical target. If he’s right.

  “He probably shouldn’t have told me,” Koina admitted. “I don’t know what our position is going to be, but I’m afraid the director will have to fight him. Holt Fasner won’t let us act like we want to be out from under his thumb. So Captain Vertigus,” she remarked dryly, “has handed me an interesting problem in ethics. Do I tell the director? How much do I tell him?

  “But the captain knows all that,” she concluded. “He simply can’t stand to let me be a target without warning me.”

  Hashi blinked at her as if he were stunned.

  A Bill of Severance. Attacked to try to stop him.

  Kazes are such fun, don’t you think?

  The thought gave him the sensation that he was caught in a swirl of quarks and mesons; bits of logic so minuscule that they could scarcely be detected, and yet so necessary that palpable facts were meaningless without them. The coreolus filled him with a sense of exhilaration that was indistinguishable from terror—an emotional mix which he found more stimulating, desirable, and addictive than pseudoendorphins or raw cat.

  A Bill of Severance, forsooth! Now, where did venerable, no, antique, ancient Captain Sixten Vertigus come by the sheer audacity to propose an idea like that? The man was barely sapient.

  No matter. Treasuring his excitement, Hashi kept it to himself.

  “How extraordinarily conscientious of him,” he replied to Koina’s questioning gaze. “I understand his dilemma—and yours, my dear Koina. If I were to presume to advise you, I would suggest that this matter should be put before the director immediately. Sooner.” Which might serve to distract Warden Dios from Hashi’s delay on other subjects. And the outcome might prove entirely fascinating. What would Warden do when he learned of Captain Vertigus’ intentions? “His response may surprise you.”

  Koina studied the DA director, frowning as if she couldn’t quite believe what she heard. Then, abruptly, she rose from her seat. Putting him to the test before he could change his mind, she said, “Thank you, Director Lebwohl. I’ll do that.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she set her hand on the door and signaled the tech outside to unseal it.

  Hashi was in a hurry now. To complete her departure, he protested, “No, Director Hannish. I thank you.”

  But his attention was already elsewhere; on his hands as they worked his board, nimbly running commands to call up the results of his retrieval request from Data Storage.

  You deserve her.

  Nick Succorso, he half sang, half whistled through his teeth. Where are you? What are you doing? What do you mean?

  He was as happy as he’d ever been.

  Which was more plausible? That Nick had access to knowledge concerning events on Earth? Or that he’d gained an understanding of Morn’s usefulness as an informational kaze aimed at the UMCP? The latter, obviously. Yet Hashi found the idea difficult to credit. He couldn’t imagine how Nick—or Morn herself—might have become aware that what she knew was explosive.

  Surely the most plausible interpretation available was that when Nick said “her” he meant Sorus Chatelai
ne.

  What is the connection?

  Data Storage supplied it—although Hashi couldn’t have said precisely what “it” was. A coincidence; a hint, perhaps; the cornerstone of a fact: nothing more. Nevertheless he treasured it as if it were essential to his exhilaration.

  Hard information on Soar and her captain, Sorus Chatelaine, was scant. Like most illegals, she was purportedly a freighter—in her case, a gap-capable orehauler. Ship id showed that she’d been built and registered legally out of Betelgeuse Primary; armed heavily enough to defend herself, but not enough to make her an effective pirate. Except for her recent appearance at Thanatos Minor, no positive evidence indicated that she was illegal. The marks against her were negative in kind.

  According to Data Storage, Soar had done virtually no logged and certified work in the past five years. Before that, she’d been steadily employed by various mining concerns and stations: after that, nothing. And she’d been identified in the vicinity of one or two raids under circumstances which made it unclear whether or not she’d been involved.

  Data on Sorus Chatelaine was even thinner. After graduating with a master’s license from the space academy on Aleph Green, she’d served aboard several different gap ships for a few years; then she’d disappeared when her vessel was apparently destroyed by an illegal. Missing and presumed dead: no confirmation. That was the last entry in her id file.

  But it wasn’t the last entry to appear on Hashi’s readout.

  Somewhere in the bowels of Data Storage, an enterprising tech had engaged in some imaginative cross-referencing, and had appended the results to Soar’s file.

  As a starting point, the tech noted that Soar’s emission signature and scan profile as recorded by ships sighting her during the past five years diverged significantly from the characteristics defined by the shipyard which built her. Indeed, both signature and profile bore a much closer resemblance to those of one particular illegal vessel which had been presumed lost nearly ten years ago. Not a definitive resemblance, but an intriguing one. Enough of a resemblance to suggest that the illegal vessel, after a five-year hiatus, had regained her freedom to travel in human space by attacking the original Soar and taking on her identity—in essence, by stealing her datacore.