Traitor's Sun

  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