were dead. But I don't want to move precipitously. It might be possible that
this Mikhail Hastur would be more agreeable than his predecessor, and we could
save ourselves a lot of potential trouble by trying to deal with him first."
"I thought you would jump at the chance to get Cottman into the hands of the
Federation." Miles sounded disappointed, and a little angry, too.
Mine the road? Use blasters? Had Miles lost his mind? "There are too many random
factors for my peace of mind." When he saw the expression on the face of the
other man, the look of eagerness fading away, Belfontaine felt a certain
smugness. Granfell had to learn who was in charge here. "Still, it is an
excellent opportunity, and I agree we should not ignore it. Go ahead. Get Vancof
to work on finding a good site for an ambush, and we will try to gather more
information. I want definitive proof that Regis Hastur is dead. Vancof's word is
not enough. And if I hear from Regional Headquarters tomorrow, we might have to
scrap the whole idea."
Granfell grunted, then nodded. "I'll send Nailors out first thing in the
morning."
"Why not go yourself?" The introduction of Miles' next in command disturbed him,
for the more people who knew of the conspiracy, the greater was the danger of
failure.
"Vancof hates my guts, and would do almost anything to annoy me. He was very
reluctant when I suggested the idea a few hours ago-the man is a coward and a
drunk. It is a pity we don't have a better agent in place, but he is the only
one that is on the route the procession will take. And we don't have time to get
another band of Travelers into position to spy for us."
"Can Nailors be trusted?"
Granfell did not answer immediately, and Belfontaine felt a sudden thrust of
unease pierce his belly. "I believe he can be," the other man finally said.
The reply did not reassure Belfontaine, but instead caused the faint bud of
unease in his mind to bloom into a full-fledged anxiety. Granfell was holding
something back. He must be! What was it? He had a yearning to grab the taller
man by the throat and throttle the truth out of him. For all he knew, the entire
story was a fabrication, some plot to discredit him. Lyle chewed over this,
hating the wind blowing against his back, the smell of woodsmoke drifting across
from the city choking his throat. He looked at the decaying surface beneath his
feet, the weeds that had pushed through the ancient concrete, breaking it, and
held back a sudden sense of helplessness and fury.
The dilemma before him seemed hydralike. If Granfell was telling the truth, and
Regis Hastur was dead, why had he not heard of it from other sources? True, Lew
Alton had stonewalled him on certain matters in the past, but it seemed out of
character for him not to have informed Headquarters. The man was just a
bureaucrat, full of his own position and power, wasn't he? Was there some sort
of struggle going on in Comyn Castle? Perhaps this unknown Mikhail Hastur did
not trust Lew Alton-which would suit Belfontaine well enough. Alton was Regis'
advisor, but was he also a confidant of this unknown man? He needed better
information, and he could think of no way to get any immediately. If only that
daughter of Damon Aldaran's had been as useful as her father had suggested she
might be.
On the other hand, if Granfell were playing him false, then this whole thing
might be a plot to discredit him and take his place. Belfontaine played that
idea out quickly. With his personal history, it would not be difficult for
Granfell to convince their superiors that he had been the instigator of an
unauthorized attack on the planetary rulers of Cottman IV. That was assuming
that the Federation had not abandoned them to the cold winds of Cottman forever.
Why was he suggesting using troops from the Aldaran Domain? Was Granfell in
league with that old fool up in the Hellers? Miles had gone to the Hellers a few
months before, ostensibly to evaluate the situation there. But what if the
actual reason had been to see Dom Damon and involve him in Granfell's personal
ambitions. If Belfontaine were removed, Miles was the logical person to step
into his place as Station Chief.
What if the Federation's planned retreat had forced Granfell's hand? With a sick
feeling, Belfontaine realized that his hatred of Cottman had led him to isolate
himself, to depend on Miles Granfell, whom he knew to be a discontented and
ambitious man. But until now he had always believed he could trust the man not
to overstep himself.
"Let us take one thing at a time, shall we?"
Miles was not satisfied, if the angry jerk of his shoulders was anything to
judge by. "Why wait? I thought you would jump at the chance."
"There are several ways to approach this situation, Miles, and not all of them
involve the wholesale slaughter of a hundred or more people."
"Very well. But I will send Nailors off in the morning to tell Vancof to scout
out a possible site for an ambush." He paused, as if something disturbed him,
something he did not want to say. "Uh, there is a little problem. Vancof says he
wants written orders from you before he goes ahead. And a shortbeam transmitter,
too. Funny, isn't it, how much of our current technology fails to work on
Cottman, but things we abandoned hundreds of years ago still do."
"A transmitter? I don't much care for that idea. The locals are backward and
self-absorbed, but not so much so that they would fail to notice illegal
technology . . ." Written orders? Was that really Vancof's idea, or was Miles
trying to create trouble for him? One thing the disaster on Lein III had taught
him was to never leave any evidence behind, and here was Granfell suggesting
that he do exactly that. The whole thing smelled. No, it stank!
"I don't think there is much real danger that it will be discovered and
recognized as prohibited technology, do you?" Granfell brushed aside Lyle's mild
objection with an abrupt gesture, his face animated in the yellow glow from a
nearby light. "And perhaps we might see about creating a bit of havoc in
Thendara itself-something to keep those stupid City Guards busy."
Belfontaine gave the taller man a hard look. On the surface he seemed just as he
always had, a ruthless, restless man with grand ambitions. But underneath-Lyle
sensed a tension that he could not quite read. Granfell was too eager for
Belfontaine's comfort, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he
became that Granfell could not have come up with such a plan on the spur of the
moment. He didn't believe Granfell was that clever. And suggesting sending a
piece of off-world technology to a man who was a poor spy, although an efficient
assassin when he was not drinking too heavily, made no sense and roused a finger
of unease in his already unsettled belly.
Yes, it was clear now. Granfell could not be trusted, and he was probably in
league with either the Planetary Administrator, Grayson, or with Lord Aldaran.
Hmm . . . for all he knew, Miles was in league with Lew Alton, and this was why
the news of Hastur's death had not reached him. Stranger things had happened. He
&nb
sp; drew a breath, forcing himself to keep his imagination in check.
"Do what you can," he answered with as much outward indifference as he could
manage, while inwardly seething. "And have Nailors see me before he leaves-I'll
think about the shortbeam."
Granfell turned and walked away without a word, leaving Belfontaine alone in the
cold. After a minute, he turned and walked toward his own quarters, deep in
thought. Surely he had neutralized Grayson sufficiently. Besides, the man was
not much of a schemer. So it must be Aldaran. Unless Alton was part of the plot,
too. No, this seemed unlikely in the extreme. It had to be Dom Damon, didn't it,
with his desire to become the real power on Cottman.
Abruptly, Belfontaine turned and went back into the HQ Building. He had to find
out if Granfell had been in secret communication with Dom Damon-the idea had
never occurred to him until now. What an idiot he was! He had such contempt for
the old man that he had not seen the danger at all. And there were those sons of
his, too. Why had Hermes Aldaran returned so suddenly? Or perhaps it was the
older one, Robert, who was conspiring with Granfell. Just because he appeared
the soul of probity did not mean he had no desire to succeed to his father's
place.
They must all be in this together! There was no other reasonable explanation for
Herm Aldaran to have come back so conveniently. Somehow the old man or Robert
must have sent for him-his return had nothing to do with the dissolution of the
legislature! That had been a mere coincidence. He must find a way to get Hermes
away from Comyn Castle. He knew ways to get information out of a man!
Frustration welled up in his throat, leaving his mouth sour and dry. Lew Alton
had not even bothered to reply to his demand for the return of Herm Aldaran. He
felt ignored-no, worse-dismissed as unimportant. Well, he would just have to do
something-perhaps send a message to this Mikhail Hastur instead. Or go to Comyn
Castle himself and demand a meeting. He shuddered all over. He would not risk
his dignity by going-no, he would make someone come to him! And if it was Lew
Alton, the man would never leave HQ alive.
For a moment, he dwelt on this satisfying idea, enjoying the images that danced
in his mind. Then Lyle scolded himself. Alton was too smart to risk it, and he
knew it. And he was being hasty, jumping to conclusions without enough real
evidence, wasn't he? No! On the contrary, he knew in his gut that he was
right-that his constant fear and paranoia had some foundation.
As his chilled feet hit the floor of the corridor leading toward the
Communications Office, Belfontaine felt the enormity of the plot swell in his
mind. The heat of the building was almost stifling after the cold outside, and
he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his narrow brow. He pulled off his cloak
with an angry yank, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The water-resistant
fabric of his uniform refused to absorb the moisture, and he was forced to use
his hand, which he loathed doing.
The Communications Office was empty except for one sleepy-eyed clerk who stared
at him with a gaping jaw before leaping up hastily and saluting gracelessly.
Belfontaine ignored him until he found a tissue and wiped his hands. "Has there
been any word from Regional?"
"No, sir. It has been quiet all during my shift." The clerk looked uneasy, as if
he wanted to ask questions but dared not.
"No news is good news, perhaps. Why don't you take a break-have some synthecaf
or something. Bring me some, too."
The clerk didn't react at first, just looked mildly surprised. He was not
supposed to leave his post unless he was relieved. Then comprehension stole over
his face. "Yes, sir. That would be very pleasant."
Belfontaine watched him leave, and realized that it had been a mistake to come
there. Too late. He knew the clerk would talk unless he could find a way to stop
him, and he did not want his visit to be the gossip of HQ by dawn. He would
worry about that later.
He sat down in the still warm chair vacated a minute before and tapped a few
commands into the keyboard. The thing was old, the keys soiled with use, and
some of them were sluggish to respond. Another economy-the keyboard should have
been replaced long since.
It had been several years since Belfontaine had actually used a communications
array, but he had not forgotten how. This pleased him. It took only a few
strokes to call up the records he had in mind, then transfer them to the display
in his office. There was no way to remove the traces of his use, however, if
anyone wished to discover what he had been up to. He could only hope that the
clerk's evident boredom and sleepiness would prevent him searching for what had
occurred.
When the faint tattoo of approaching footsteps came to his ears, he cleared the
board, rose, and returned to the spot where he had been standing before. He
whistled tunelessly, a nervous habit he had never quite managed to break. When
the clerk came in with two disposable containers a moment later, Belfontaine
took one calmly.
"It must be rather boring sitting here all night," he commented.
"Yes, sir, but I am used to it now."
"Still, I have been a little lax about rotating the shifts, I think. How long
have you had the night shift?"
"Eight months or so, sir. Ever since I was posted to Cottman."
Ah, good-he was a recent transfer. And from his nervousness, probably easily
intimidated. "That is much too long! I'll see about having you transferred to
days for a while."
"But, sir . . . aren't we . . . I mean?"
Lyle gave him a coy look, trying to appear amused. "I think you deserve to be
put on days for the foreseable future," he announced. "If that would suit you."
The disconcerted clerk looked down into his cup. "It does rather interfere with
my social life, always being awake at night and asleep most of the day," he
admitted. "And I don't have the seniority to get a better shift, so I didn't
even ask."
"Got a lady friend in the Trade City, do you?"
"I wouldn't call her a lady, sir."
Belfontaine laughed as lewdly as he could manage, and the clerk smiled timidly.
"Well, tomorrow I'll change your shift. I am glad I came in tonight. I have had
so much on my mind that I haven't been giving as much attention to my men as I
should." The words were as sour in his mouth as the revolting liquid in his cup.
He hated synthecaf.
"Was there something you wanted, or were you just . . . restless, sir?"
"I could not sleep, so I went for a walk, and then I just found myself here.
Habit, I suppose. I began my career at a message array, and a room like this
seems very homey to me. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no particular reason, sir, except I've never seen you around at night. But
I think we are all a little restless, with things being so unsettled."
Belfontaine nodded, as if he accepted this explanation. "Unsettled. That's a
good word for it." Then a worm of suspicion uncoiled in his mind. "I suppose I
am not the only one wandering around in the corridors."
"No, s
ir. Clerk Gretrian said that Captain Granfell stopped in during her shift,
and then he came back again a while ago. Just looked in and gave me a hello."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, sir. And two nights ago, or maybe three-they all start to run together
after a while-I saw Administrator Grayson's assistant, too. Hmm. It seems to me
that she's been here other times as well, even before the order to get the
indigines off the complex came through."
"My goodness! I had no idea." Belfontaine wanted very much to ask if Grayson's
assistant, a half-Cottman woman who had been raised in the John Reade Orphanage,
had tried to access anything. No, he decided, it would be foolish to display any
real interest. Perhaps Granfell and Grayson were indeed up to something. The
suspicion he had discarded only a short time before returned with a vengeance.
"Well, good night. And thanks for the synthecaf. After the outdoors, it was very
welcome. Beastly climate, isn't it."
"You can say that again, sir."
"Good night, then." Belfontaine walked out of the CommCenter before he realized
that he had no idea what the name of the clerk was, and that he did not really
care. But he would find out, and put the man in for a transfer to days. Perhaps
that favor would keep him from talking, or defuse his interest in why the
Station Chief had stopped in so suddenly.
A wave of weariness washed through him, followed by a mild nausea. He dropped
the now tepid synthecaf cup into the closest disposal chute and made a face.
There were too many variables, suddenly, after years of things being stable, and
he did not like it. No, that was too mild a reaction. He hated this situation.
He hated not knowing who his foes were, and he hated not being able to predict
what would happen in the near future.
Belfontaine's small hands curled into fists, and he wished there were something
nearby that he could hit. But the walls of the corridor were unforgiving, and he
was not of a mind to injure himself out of sheer frustration. He needed to have
a plan of his own. The problem was he had no clear idea where to begin.
His office was silent, and the stack of papers on the desk did not improve his
mood. Why was the Regional Relay Station returning his messages unanswered? If
the Federation was really going to pull out of Cottman, he should be receiving