Traitor's Sun

  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