these doubts."
"If you did not have doubts, Mikhail, I would be very concerned."
"That is an odd thing to say, even for you." Lew was notorious in Comyn Castle
for voicing outrageous opinions as if they were the merest commonplace.
"The man who is absolutely sure of himself is much more dangerous than the one
who entertains uncertainty. Robert Kadarin was such a man, and so was old Dyan
Ardais. They paid a great price for their pride and vanity, and nearly ruined
this world in the process. You are a thoughtful man, and that is exactly what is
needed at present."
"Thank you for your confidence. It means a great deal to me, especially now." He
was too tired to think about the future any longer. It was too big and very
frightening. He need to change the subject, talk about more mundane matters.
"You said Herm brought his family? Have you met them yet? Have they been seen to
properly?"
"I stopped in and greeted them before I came to you. Since I did not feel I
could leave the Castle myself, I let Rafael do the welcoming, which I think he
was glad to do, since it got him out of Gisela's clutches for a short time. The
wife, Katherine, is a very lovely woman from Renney, with hair like night and a
forceful chin. She has a son, Amaury, from her first marriage-she was a
widow-and she and Herm have a daughter, Ter‚se, as well. A pretty child, and so
like Marguerida at the same age that it nearly made my heart turn over in my
chest. They are all exhausted and I suspect that Katherine and the children are
more than a little frightened at the prospect of being exiled on Darkover for
the rest of their lives. Herm, however, seems very glad to be home-and I can
certainly understand why!"
"Rennet? Why does that planet sound familiar?"
"Because one of Marguerida's favorite composers, Korniel, was born there, long
ago. It is another Protected Planet, and has a history of uprisings and
rebellions, and a strong movement, called the Separatists, which caused trouble
from time to time, while I was still in the Senate. It was settled by colonists
from Avalon, New Caledonia, and some other places, several hundred years ago.
That exhausts my entire knowledge of the place, except that I understand it is
very beautiful."
"I must make them feel welcome." Regis would have wanted him to greet them, he
was sure. Besides, he hadn't seen Herm in years, and wanted to reacquaint
himself with the fellow. Mikhail was disgusted to realize that, for all the will
in the world, he could not even attempt this small courtesy.
Lew shook his head. "The first thing you should do is bathe and get some sleep,
and perhaps a decent meal. Marguerida has arranged for their needs, and she is
planning a small supper for them tomorrow night. Until then, you do not have to
do anything except rest. Comyn Castle will run just fine without your attentions
for a day or two. The world has not ended with Regis' death."
"Maybe not, but why does it feel as if it has?"
There were tears in both men's eyes as they rose from either side of the desk.
Lew blew out the candles and damped down the fire. They stood, shoulder to
shoulder for a moment, united in their desire to guide their world through the
difficult times that lay ahead, and then Donal opened the door and they left the
room.
4
Lyle Belfontaine, Station Chief at Cottman IV's HQ, leaned back in his rigid and
uncomfortable chair and stared west through his large window, toward the
afternoon sun, which was almost hidden behind some watery clouds. It would rain
soon, or perhaps a little snow would fall. From his office he could see all the
plain, square buildings that made up the headquarters complex-the power
generator, the barracks, the hospital, and the rest. It was a good view, in his
opinion, because from here he could see nothing of the native "city" of Thendara
itself. This suited him very well. He loathed the city, its inhabitants, and, in
particular, Regis Hastur and all the other recalcitrant lords of the Domains.
Nothing he had done in the years he had been exiled to this godforsaken place
had made any more impact on them than a gnat, and he hated being ignored.
After several minutes spent in futile musing, Belfontaine turned around and
leaned forward to pick up the skimpy sheet of messagefax that lay on his
otherwise empty desk blotter. He read it again, in utter dismay and disbelief.
He shifted miserably, for the chair had been constructed for a taller man than
he, and was bolted to the floor. He had requisitioned a new one several times,
but it never had come. The chair seemed symptomatic of everything he thought
wrong with the Federation at present-it was too rigid, and the wrong size.
His features twisted with discontent, and the scar he had gotten in the
disastrous mess on Lein III itched across his cheek and brow. Belfontaine could
have had it removed, but he had chosen not to. He believed it made him look
dangerous and commanded respect. And it was a reminder of his fall from the good
graces of the Federation, his removal to this benighted planet with its
miserable climate, and his complete failure to execute the plans that had danced
in his mind before he arrived. He had been determined to do what no one else had
managed-deliver Cottman IV to the Federation on a platter. But thus far he had
not succeeded, or come even close. If only he was not forced to act through
underlings, and work with stupid, obstinate people like Lew Alton. At least he
had gotten rid of Captain Rafe Scott-forced him to retire. Let him run his
mountaineering expeditions to the Hellers-he hoped he'd break his arrogant neck
or freeze to death. In fact, if the entire population turned to icicles, he
would be very pleased. The place was marginal at best, but if there were no
native people, then the planet could be colonized, and he could be made
Governor-General, at least.
Now everything he had hoped for was ruined! The entire Federation staff was
being ordered off Cottman, in only thirty days. He shook his head, ran nervous
fingers through graying hair, then crunched up the missive and tossed it toward
the disposal chute. It missed, falling short and dropping to the floor. The
crumpled message lay there, mocking him. His chance to redeem himself, to get
back in favor, was slipping away, all because of Premier Nagy and her ruthless
ambition! Maybe it was a mistake. This was not the time for the Federation to
pull back!
He only needed another year-two at most-and the title of Governor-General would
surely be his. Not, of course, that this was what he wanted. Being governor of a
place like Cottman IV would not satisfy his ambitions, but it would have been a
beginning. He was sure he could have parlayed it into a better position, one on
a planet where he could wield real power and influence. Cottman was as worthless
a piece of rock as he had ever seen.
God, how he hated the planet. Sometimes he dreamed of calling in a Strike Force,
to slag the whole place down to radioactive magma, boiling away into the void.
It seemed such a suitable fate for a damned cold place, where the filthy natives
br />
believed that Hell was a freezer. It was only a fantasy, and a wasteful one at
that, but the idea kept him from going crazy. Or, failing that, Belfontaine
longed for a Task Force, at least. He had done his best to create a situation to
justify such an order, so he could at least get a couple of regiments of Marines
to "preserve order." That had worked very well on other worlds, even on members
of the Federation itself. But the damned Protected status tied his hands, and
unless he could demonstrate that the spaceport was in danger, or Headquarters
was besieged by hostiles, it was pointless to request help. All he got was form
refusals from some clerk on Alpha, telling him that the present economic
problems made it impossible to fulfill his demands. He doubted anyone in charge
even saw the reports he was at such pains to generate.
He was surrounded with incompetents! He had agents-true, not many, and not the
best that the Security Services had to offer-and he had sent them out to make
just the sort of trouble that should have brought him the power he wanted. They
had failed him, for the riots he had managed to get started had ceased almost as
quickly as they were begun, and Regis Hastur had never applied to him for help.
He had used his own Guards, and kept order in a way that won him Belfontaine's
grudging respect, or would have if he had not hated the fellow quite so deeply.
He had never met Hastur, and knew of him only through the eerie Danilo
Syrtis-Ardais or that damned Lew Alton, who had been appointed to a position
that seemed to be the equivalent of Secretary of State, except that Cottman IV
didn't use titles like that. He loathed the tall, one-handed man, and tried to
avoid meeting with him whenever possible. There was something uncanny, almost
unnatural, about him, something that set his nerves on edge. Alton was a wall
that Belfontaine had never managed to get past.
He toyed once again with the idea of sending in a false report. His personal
clerk was stupid and obedient, chosen for these qualities, actually, and would
not question his orders. She likely would not even read the message, but would
only type in the code. Belfontaine shuddered a little. That was exactly what had
gotten him sent to Cottman in the first place, with a reduction in rank from
Lieutenant General to Colonel, and a black mark on his record. His punishment
was this backward, frozen hell where the populace never saw newsfeeds, and could
not be influenced except by word of mouth. And Cottman had proved quite
resistant to the rumors his agents had tried to spread-almost as if they knew
the falseness of them.
Belfontaine's single attempt to get around the technology restrictions directly
had been a complete failure. He had installed mediafeeds in a few of the taverns
in the Trade City-even though this was a direct violation of several
agreements-and they had been dismantled within a day. It had been a costly
mistake, and he was sure that Alton was at the bottom of it. If only he could
have had direct access to Regis Hastur, he was sure he could have persuaded the
man of the advantages of media screens, which would have easily led to
electrification of the city of Thendara, and given the Federation a grip on the
attention of the people. But despite many requests, Belfontaine had never been
invited to Comyn Castle, and Regis Hastur could have been an imaginary person
for all the contact he had had with the man. In a fit of spite, he had put the
Medical Center off limits to any except Federation personnel, thinking that the
natives would be loath to forgo the conveniences of the place. He'd shut down
the John Reade Orphanage as well. That hadn't worked out either. They were so
stupid that they didn't care about Terran medical technology and they took care
of any abandoned children themselves! They didn't even use Life Extension
treatments-except that old fool up in the Hellers, Damon Aldaran-and got old and
died!
This, among many other things, offended him. He intended to live for at least a
hundred and fifty years-longer if possible. Hell, he'd sell his soul for
immortality, if he still believed in souls or gods or any of that other
claptrap. But if he did not find some way to get Cottman in his hands before the
deadline, some means to destabilize the government, such as it was, he was going
to find himself on another backwater world, and never have the money needed to
afford the treatments at all. He was close to sixty, after thirty years in
various arms of Federation Service, and he would need treatment soon. But the
price had risen enormously during the past decade, which he found peculiar.
Coming from a corporate family, he had a grasp of basic economics, and knew that
the LE treatments should have become cheaper with the passing of time, not more
expensive. Someone was clearly making a huge profit on the process. Belfontaine
Industries had nothing to do with pharmaceuticals, so he could only speculate in
fury.
He had been told, in a burning interview with his father, that he lacked the
sort of mind that was needed for the vast empire that was Belfontaine
Industries. Otherwise, he would not have been on Cottman IV, but would instead
have been dragging the molten guts out of some planet, like his brother Gustav
was, producing the raw materials for the Big Ships and the dreadnoughts the
Federation was busily creating.
He would never forget the day his father had told him there was no place for him
in BI, that the corporate psychprobes had determined he was unsuitable for any
position in the company. At least he had not suffered the unspeakable insult of
a plant managership. Vividly he remembered standing in front of the huge desk
behind which his father was buttressed, waiting to be told he would be appointed
to the Federation legislature from one of the many planets that the corporation
owned. That was the usual path for those who did not go into the company.
But apparently he was not suited for that either. He could still feel the shock
at his father's words, the roughening of his skin and the shrinking of his
testicles. "We can't do a thing for you, Lyle. And we certainly won't support
you-no wastrels in this family. I think your only option is Federation
Service-not the military side, obviously-too many possibilities for conflicts of
interest that might embarrass the company. Belfontaine Industries has to come
first, of course. I know you'll understand. But there should be something you
can find, some post or other. That's all-I have a holoconference in thirty
seconds."
Numb, he had taken his dismissal without a word, and walked out of the office.
Federation Service! That was for people who couldn't succeed anywhere else-who
were incompetent. He had been raised to regard the Service with contempt, and
now he was being ordered to apply for it. He longed to turn around and go back,
to smash Augustine Belfontaine's smooth, life-extended features into a pulp. But
his father was tall and strong, and Lyle was not. He had never seen the man
again, and had tried to assuage his injured feelings with plots to make them all
sorry for treating him so ba
dly.
Oddly, the Service had actually suited him rather well, after he got over his
initial humiliation. He discovered he had a certain skill for administration-so
much for the value of the psychprobes. He had risen rapidly through the ranks,
until he made his stupid mistake on Lein III. He never should have tried to
unseat a planetary ruler, especially not with explosives that could be traced to
his offices. And the false reports he had sent to Alpha had been revealed for
the fabrications that they were. He had been lucky to get Cottman IV. If he had
been less well-connected, he might have ended up running a penal colony, or
worse, inhabiting one.
He was smarter now, and with his background in Information Technologies and
Propaganda, he knew what he could have done on Cottman with even one media
screen and the right sort of entertainment. He could have had the occupants of
Thendara in a fury in less than a month, he was certain, and probably ready to
storm Comyn Castle with pitchforks and truncheons. He had switched over to the
security arm that administered outposts like this, after the incident on Lein
III, and found it much to his liking. True, he had never used a weapon, although
occasionally he fantasized about what he might do with a blaster. He would have
liked to flame his father, still running Belfontaine Industries in his nineties,
and Lew Alton, and a few other people. But he despised soldiers almost as much
as he loathed hereditary rulers like Regis Hastur. They were just disposable men
and women, like the workers in the factories of Belfontaine Industries. And he
was aware, in moments of rare self-examination, that there was some flaw in this
attitude, and occasionally wondered if the corporate psychprobes had known this
about him, and that was why he had been denied his rightful place in the
company.
But it was not his fault! It was people like Lewis Alton, who wanted to preserve
their own power, who were keeping the Federation from achieving its destiny, to
rule all the planets with an iron hand. That was just how things were supposed
to be. But no-they insisted that their own customs suited them just fine, and
they could not see that they were only delaying the inevitable. How could one
small, backward planet stand up to the Terrans, in the long run? And he, Lyle