“Nope. We never went near Rotterdam,” Koutsoudas said.
“So what you’re saying is—”
“I figured it was secret orders, back then. I had nothing else. But now . . .”
“Benignity,” said Oblo.
“I hope not,” Petris said, but a deep internal flutter told him that his instinct said it was. “What a stinking mess that would be.”
“Is,” said Oblo again. “Look at it, sir—”
“I am,” Petris said. The ramifications unfolded like a flowering bud to his inward eye. “ ‘Steban, when you caught up with us at Naverrn . . . did you have orders for that, too?”
“Of course,” Koutsoudas said. “The prince aboard—or at least one of the clones.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Not much, though. Petris ran through the names he knew. Arkady Ginese and Meharry both in Weapons, Oblo and Issigai Guar in Navigation, Koutsoudas in scan, his buddy Sim in communications, himself in Engineering . . . far from enough. Others, who had been in Heris’s crew, might trust them, second-hand trust, but how many? If Livadhi were turning traitor, what would he do?
“’Steban, we’re going to do nothing now but watch. We still have nothing provable. When he’s off the ship, on this courtesy visit, be sure we know.”
“Right, sir.” Koutsoudas looked more at ease, having transferred his problem to someone in charge. Petris wished again he had someone to hand off this mess to. When Koutsoudas left, Petris turned to Meharry.
“You tell Arkady and start thinking who you trust, and who trusts you. Oblo, you’ll talk to Issi, same thing. I’ll tackle Padoc. We ought to be able to swap watches around to cover, once we know who’s with us.” That would buy him time to think.
“I wonder what she’d say,” Meharry said. They all knew which she that was.
“So do I,” Petris said. He had never felt so alone.
“He’s gone,” Oblo murmured into his comunit. “I’m sittin’ first nav, Keller’s on the bridge. Burleson went with him.”
“Right. Who’s on the honor guard?”
“None of us.” Oblo read the roster. None of the old Heris crew, only one who had been hers at all.
“All right. Keep us up.”
Petris turned away from his comunit. “All right, folks, the admiral’s headed for the Station, courtesy call. You know the drilclass="underline" insystem drive stays hot, we run diagnostics on the FTL. I’ve got the arrival report to write; you’ve got my code if you need me.”
“Right, sir.” Chief Coggins nodded.
Petris beeped Meharry. Neither she nor Ginese was on right now, which made it easier. He hoped.
They met in the Engineering break room. Petris flicked on the workstation, and started his report; Meharry dealt with the scan, though she suspected Oblo could have intercepted it on the bridge.
“Anything new?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Oblo and Sim got a datasuck off the Station communications nexus,” Koutsoudas said. “There’s a message for Livadhi. They can’t read it. It’s encrypted.”
“Originating?”
“Can’t tell for sure. This station automatically strips originating headers.”
Arash Livadhi met the Fleet representative—another admiral minor recently promoted—and the station’s civilian Stationmaster. The rituals of greeting, of exchanging courtesies, of being served light refreshment, grated on him as never before. The formal handing over of responsibility for the convoy, the necessary several hours of chatting about the news, the likelihood of militia action out here, the recent movement of civilian trade—down 47 percent, with resulting shortages in infant supplies, of all things—nearly drove him crazy. What did he care about infant supplies? People had lived for centuries, he was sure, before someone invented disposable diapers and bottles.
Admiral Minor Ksia invited him to dinner, and Stationmaster Corfoldi urged him to visit the station gardens. . . . “We’re very proud of our orchid collection, you’ll find it quite unique.” Livadhi accepted the invitation—it would have been strange if he had not—and agreed to stretch his legs in the gardens in the meantime.
“And I might just look for something for my wife.”
“But, Commodore, it’s as I said—with trade off so badly—”
“I’m sure I can find something,” Livadhi said. “She likes any little souvenir of a place I’ve been.”
At last he was out of their offices, strolling about a station that was, after all, much less crowded than most. Commander Burleson had gone back to the ship, quite properly. Livadhi considered asking his escort to let him go on alone, but that was irregular, and he could not afford irregularity.
The gardens were gloomy, to his way of thinking, but the orchids in bloom—airy cascades of white hanging down from branches, or weirdly spikey shapes of yellow on the ground beneath—held his attention briefly.
On the far side of the gardens, the shopping arcade was almost empty. Livadhi wandered into Mier’s Fine China, and poked aimlessly among the aisles. Behind a counter, a listless clerk watched him as if she knew he had no intention of buying. From there he went into Charlotte’s Confectionaries, and bought a kilo box of mixed truffles as a dinner courtesy gift. He needed only a quick glance to realize that every shop had its com number painted on the shop front . . . so he ambled along, in and out of almost every shop, until he spotted the number he wanted. Micasio’s, an art gallery. Perfect.
By this time, his escort was, he suspected, both footsore and bored. He turned to them. “I’m going to see if they have any old prints,” he said. “My wife’s crazy about Sid Grevaire, and sometimes these frontier galleries have old stuff that didn’t sell insystem. I’ll probably be an hour poking around in there—why don’t you get yourselves something to drink, and there’s a nice seating area—” He nodded across the walkway, where a cluster of benches and tables gave a good view of the gallery entrance.
“If you’re sure, Admiral—we don’t mind coming with you.”
“I think I can yell that far if I need you,” Livadhi said, forcing a grin. “And I have my emergency buzzer, after all.”
“Right, sir. Thanks.”
He waited until they were safely in place before moving deeper into the gallery, and giving his name to the man behind the counter.
This time the message waiting for him was long and detailed, and he felt a great cold cavern open in his mind and heart. He could not possibly—he could not possibly not . . .
Jules, you bastard, he thought. Jules had anticipated even his most urgent concerns, his remaining loyalties. He had removed, as well as words could, the last sticking point, Livadhi’s concern for his people.
He rummaged through the print bins, with the owner’s help, and emerged 45 minutes later with a wrapped package and a receipt for two Sid Grevaire drawings and a Muly Tyson gouache, unframed. Through dinner with Admiral Minor Ksia, he sustained a lively conversation about trends in modern art. Ksia, as he’d suspected, was an aesthetic nincompoop who completely failed to grasp the challenging theories that underlay Tyson’s curious perspectives.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Livadhi returned to Vigilance in the calm of a decision firmly made.
“Admiral’s feeling better,” one of the escort detail murmured to Arkady Ginese, by then on the bridge.
“That’s good,” Arkady said.
“Not so twitchy,” the sergeant said.
“Less lip,” Arkady said. “I’m on duty.” The sergeant shrugged and went off. A few minutes later, the admiral appeared on the bridge. He looked much as usual, though—as the sergeant had said—less tense. That could always be the result of a good wine at dinner. Or not.
“What it comes down to, we can’t really do anything without maybe causing more trouble—” Petris ran a hand through his hair.