“Special Counsel.” Sixten didn’t trouble to stand; he had enough years and status to get away with sitting in almost anyone’s presence. “It’s easy to catch a man like me sleeping, even if you get plenty of rest yourself. But you look like you haven’t been to bed for days.”
This wasn’t actually true: Maxim looked neither more tired nor less alert than usual, and his clothes were fresh. But Sixten preferred to credit the Special Counsel with frailties which didn’t show. The uncomfortable alternative was to think that Maxim might indeed be as devoid of weaknesses as he appeared.
“You’d better sit down,” Sixten concluded, nodding at the nearest chair.
From there Igensard wouldn’t be able to see the small LED on Sixten’s private intercom which indicated an open channel.
“Not at all, Captain Vertigus.” Igensard’s tone was as gray and unassuming as his demeanor—and as unamused. “Of course, there’s a great deal of work to be done. But I have a capable staff. And a number of the other Members are eager to give me every assistance.”
He didn’t decline to sit, however.
By some perceptual trick, his air of being smaller than he was made him appear more solid when he sat; denser, perhaps more powerful as well, as if he contained a nuclear core which was shrinking to critical mass.
“Your concern is misplaced,” he continued, “if only because I have not recently become the target of assassins.” Deftly he redirected Sixten’s attempt to take control of the conversation. “Are you sure you’re all right? President Len assures me you weren’t injured, but I find that hard to believe. You were so close to the blast—”
Sixten cut him off brusquely. “My apologies, Special Counsel.” He had no intention of discussing the kaze’s attack with this man. “Just for a minute there, I thought you looked tired. Must be my eyes—Lord knows at my age I can’t get away with blaming it on the light.
“Shall we get right to the point? You asked to see me. My time is yours, as much as you need. But I know you’re busy. The best staff in the world can’t cure that for a man in your position. What can I do for you?”
Maxim was impervious to such delicate sarcasm. He smiled in a way that left his face smooth and didn’t soften his diffident, untouchable gaze.
“I hope you’ll call me Maxim, Captain Vertigus,” he replied. “We hardly know each other, but I would like you to be as open as a friend with me. I’m certainly prepared to be open with you. I’ll keep this conversation as confidential as you like, but I think it would be extremely valuable if we could be entirely frank with each other.”
“Maxim.” Sixten pursed his lips—an expression which in his opinion made him look like a desiccated prune, but which he employed deliberately because it used so many facial muscles that it didn’t betray such emotions as surprise, consternation, or despair. “I appreciate the courtesy, naturally. Still I must confess—in the spirit of openness—that you’ve taken me somewhat aback. What are you prepared to be open with me about?”
“Sixten—” the Special Counsel began, then paused to ask, “May I call you Sixten?”
Sixten kept his mouth tight to disguise his relish. “I prefer Captain Vertigus.” To avoid the impression of rudeness, however, he added; “It’s an honorable title, and I earned it.”
Maxim shrugged noncommittally. “Captain Vertigus, then. I’ll answer any questions you want to ask—any questions at all—about my investigation of Warden Dios and the UMCP.”
“I see.” Sixten stifled a grimace with difficulty. The ineffectuality of his admittedly subtle efforts to ruffle Igensard reminded him of other, more profound failures. Once again he found himself in the presence of a man with power and secrets—and he had no idea what to do about it. “And what exactly do you want me to be open about?”
“I would like to ask you a couple of questions,” Maxim replied promptly. His tone suggested that he knew he was being presumptuous, but felt he had no choice. His duty was exigent. “The more honestly—and the more fully—you answer them, the more I’ll benefit. I don’t mean personally, of course, but as the Special Counsel charged with this investigation by the GCES.”
“I see,” Sixten repeated. He took a moment to examine his conscience, and found that he was in no mood for bullshit. “It’s an interesting proposal. Forgive me if I don’t fall out of my chair hurrying to take you up on it. Frankly, I can’t think of anything you could tell me that I might want or need to know.
“You know where I stand—I’ve been holding my ground alone for decades. I support the UMCP. I oppose the UMC. And my position doesn’t depend on such functional details as honor or malfeasance. Convince me Holt Fasner is as pure as the heavens—show me the Number of the Beast etched on Warden Dios’ forehead—and I’ll say the same. Humankind needs the UMCP. Humankind needs to be rid of the UMC. We should be discussing matters of structure, not function. But structure, as I understand it, is outside the mandate of your investigation.”
Then he shrugged. “However, that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to answer questions. I’m just a crotchety old man, not an obstructionist. What do you want to know?”
What are you after, Special Counsel? What are you trying to get out of me?
While Sixten spoke, Maxim waited without moving a muscle. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of patience. Nevertheless in some way he appeared to be shrinking into himself, becoming at once more compact and more dangerous. Sixten received the disturbing impression that if Maxim ever exploded, the detonation would be indistinguishable from madness.
“You’re an interesting man, Captain Vertigus,” Igensard observed deferentially when Sixten stopped. “It occurs to me that you should be director of the UMCP.”
Sixten flapped his hands. “Flattery—” he began.
“After a few decades of Warden Dios,” Maxim continued as if he couldn’t be interrupted, “what humankind really needs is probity, integrity. Men like Dios and Lebwohl specialize in moral legerdemain, and we’ve had as much of that as we can stand. We won’t survive much more. You, on the other hand—you could do the job in your sleep.”
“—is a waste of time,” Sixten finished abruptly. “I do everything in my sleep. That doesn’t make me a fit UMCP director. It makes me old.
“Go ahead—ask your questions. When I hear what they are, I’ll decide whether I want to answer them.”
“Certainly.” Igensard complied with an air of smugness, as if he’d gained the point he wanted most. “Captain Vertigus, is there any truth to the rumor that you once made it your business to investigate Holt Fasner and the UMC?”
Surprised past his defenses, Sixten nodded mutely.
“Forgive me for asking,” Maxim went on to avoid any impression of discourtesy. “You understand that anything you did years ago was before my time. I know nothing about it. You aren’t accountable for rumors, of course. But I couldn’t think of any way to learn the truth except by coming to you directly.
“Would you be willing to share what you discovered with me? I mean, with me and my staff?”
Sixten tried to purse his mouth again and found that he’d left it hanging open. Learn the truth. He was out of his depth. Share what you discovered—? Age had left him stupid as well as frail. What was going on here?
“Why?” His throat caught on the words. “Why do you care?”
As he faced Sixten—without moving, without expression—Maxim’s diffidence began to look more and more like arrogance. Or cunning.
“I’m perfectly aware,” he said easily, “that CEO Fasner and his various enterprises are outside the mandate of my own investigation. But I’m looking for hints, if you will—patterns of conduct or implication—which will help me put Director Dios’ actions in context. That is within my mandate. I’m sure you’ll agree that it is unquestionably germane to inquire whether his rather highhanded style of law enforcement was ever condoned or encouraged, by CEO Fasner if not by the GCES. If it was, his excesses become more understandable”—Maxim
seemed to think that this would console Sixten—“perhaps more excusable.
“The more I know about his background, the more intelligently I can carry out my commission.”
Now Sixten grasped the truth. The possibility that someone might value or need the work he’d done—and lost—years ago frayed and faded like a old man’s brief dreams. Igensard would only pretend to be disappointed if Sixten told him what had happened to his research: the question itself was only bait.
Sixten pressed his hands flat on the desktop to steady them. “You’re still trying to flatter me.” For a moment anger made his voice hard enough to sound firm. “Why don’t you just cut all this crap and tell me what you really want? Ask an honest question. Trust me to give you an honest answer.”
“You misunderstand me,” Maxim countered disingenuously. “How could I presume to flatter you? I asked the question for exactly the reasons I’ve stated.
“But for some reason you’re suspicious of my motives. I won’t try to persuade you otherwise. If the fact that I’ve come to you in pursuit of my duty as the Special Counsel charged with this investigation, rather than as a private individual with an ax to grind, doesn’t make me trustworthy in your eyes, nothing I can say is likely to change your mind. And if the fact that you’ve recently become the target of assassins for your beliefs doesn’t convince you that the issues we face now are serious, my words won’t make a difference.”
Sixten wanted to retort loudly, but he stifled the impulse. He knew from experience that his voice sounded weaker when he raised it. Instead he did his best to produce a sharp rasp.
“You’re trying my patience, Special Counsel. Anybody who wants me dead for my beliefs has had years to work on it. If I’m suddenly a target now, something must have changed, and it isn’t me.” Grimly he risked saying, “Maybe it’s your investigation.”
Maxim remained unruffled; unmoved. “I don’t see how that can be true,” he mused. “If it is, however, I would expect you to be eager to cooperate with me. You’re in danger until whatever lies behind that attack is exposed. My investigation is your best hope.”
“Bullshit,” Sixten snorted. He was too vexed to choose his words carefully. “You forget who you’re talking to. I support the UMCP. I oppose the UMC.”
If anything threatens me, you smug egomaniac, your investigation is as good a candidate as any.
That reached the Special Counsel. His brows went up; a small flush tinged his cheeks. He continued to sit still, as if he were relaxed, but his voice hardened.
“I reject the inference, Captain Vertigus. It’s insulting, and I don’t deserve it.”
Then a look of calculation came into his eyes. “Unless you’re trying to tell me without quite saying so that your involvement with the UMCP goes beyond mere support. That you are engaged with Warden Dios in dealings which have earned you enemies who want you dead.”
Sixten was so pleased by this near miss that he wanted to laugh. “What? Me and Godsen Frik? That isn’t just wrongheaded, Special Counsel—it’s silly.”
Maxim replied with a tense frown. “I see you’re determined to play games with me.” His irritation—the fact that he could be irritated—made him seem both physically larger and emotionally less dangerous. “Clearly there is little to be gained by continuing this conversation.”
But he didn’t rise from his chair.
“I would be derelict, however,” he went on in the same tone, “if I didn’t ask one more question. Out of respect for your years and experience, if not for your views, I wouldn’t trouble you. But this is too crucial to be dismissed, Captain Vertigus.”
Sixten held his breath while he waited for Igensard to finally get to the point.
“President Len informs me that you have legislation which you wish to introduce at the next Council session”—he didn’t need to consult a chronometer—“in eighteen hours. He says that you’ve claimed Senior Member’s privilege to place your legislation first on the agenda, that other matters will have to be postponed until your bill has been presented, and that you decline to reveal the nature or even the general subject of your bill.
“Captain Vertigus, I must ask you to tell me what kind of legislation you propose to introduce.”
Ah. Sixten let his breath out with a sigh. The truth at last. For this Maxim had flattered him; offered to share the results of his own investigation; reminded him that his life was in danger. Sixten had suspected as soon as Maxim Igensard asked to see him that the conversation would come to this. That was why he sat here with a channel open on his private intercom.
He should have pretended surprise; but he didn’t bother.
“Forgive me, Special Counsel. I don’t mean to be rude. But that’s none of your goddamn business.”
“You disappoint me, Captain Vertigus.” Maxim didn’t sound disappointed. He was shrinking again, consolidating himself around his hot core. “In that case, I must ask—no, I must demand—that you yield your privilege to Eastern Union Senior Member Sen Abdullah. Or, if you consider that undignified, yield to your own Junior Member, Sigurd Carsin.
“This is not a trivial matter, and I don’t insist on it lightly. But the safety of human space hangs in the balance. As long as Warden Dios remains Director of the United Mining Companies Police, we are effectively defenseless.
“You must yield, Captain Vertigus. My business with the Council must take precedence.”
Sixten took pride in holding Igensard’s gaze squarely.
“No.”
For a moment the Special Counsel seemed to think that he would gain what he wanted if he simply met Sixten’s stare without blinking; that Sixten would fold under that small pressure. But Sixten had an equally simple defense against such tactics: with his eyes open and his face calm, he took a short nap.
When he awakened a few heartbeats later, he found that Maxim had risen to his feet in exasperation.
“You’re a fool, Captain Vertigus—an old fool.” Hints of brutality lay behind his cold tone. “You’re implicated in Dios’ malfeasance, and when he falls, you’ll fall with him.”
He reached for the door without saying good-bye.
Pleased by his own equanimity, Sixten drawled, “I can think of worse fates.”
At that the Special Counsel turned back. His eyes glittered like chips of mica, and his features were dense with anger.
“I’ll tell you something I’ve learned,” he said softly, ominously. “You haven’t asked—you aren’t interested in ‘functional details’—but I’ll tell you anyway.
“Angus Thermopyle was arrested for stealing supplies from Com-Mine Station. There didn’t seem to be any other explanation, so he was presumed to have an accomplice in Com-Mine Security. That ‘functional detail’ broke the opposition to the Preempt Act. It gave Dios the last piece of authority he needed to become the only effective power in human space.
“But who was Thermopyle’s accomplice?” Although Maxim kept his voice quiet, he wielded it like a bludgeon. “Who did he pay off? Hashi Lebwohl tells us it was Deputy Chief Milos. Taverner—the same man who somehow managed to help Thermopyle escape from UMCPHQ right under Dios’ nose. That sounds plausible, doesn’t it?—if you assume UMCPHQ Security is lax enough to let something like that happen. And it’s consistent with the fact that Taverner did a great deal of off-Station banking. His records are still sealed—I don’t have authorization to open them—but for a mere deputy chief he had an enormous number of transactions.
“He sounds like a traitor, doesn’t he?”
Sixten stared back at Igensard as if the Special Counsel were a kaze who might go off at any moment.
“But here’s the interesting part, Captain Vertigus—the part that should make you rethink your intransigence. If Milos Taverner was receiving illicit payments, they didn’t come from Angus Thermopyle. He had no money. The evidence of his datacore is irrefutable on this point. He had no money. Despite his legendary reputation, he wasn’t even able to accumulate enough credit to r
epair his ship.
“We’re left with a fascinating question, Captain Vertigus. Who paid Taverner to help Thermopyle?” Maxim nearly spat the words. “Who benefited?
“When I get Council authorization to req the UMCP’s financial records—especially Hashi Lebwohl’s—I believe I’ll learn the answer.
“Think about ‘functional details,’ Captain Vertigus. Think about ‘worse fates.’ Call me if you change your mind.”
As if he were a juggernaut, massive and unstoppable, Igensard hauled open the door and left.
Sixten continued to stare at the door after his visitor was gone. At the moment he couldn’t imagine—or perhaps merely couldn’t remember—what he’d hoped to gain by frustrating the Special Counsel. Who benefited? He didn’t want to know. All he wanted was sleep. Everything else was muffled by the precipitous drowsiness of the old.
Warden Dios, what are you doing?
With an effort, he remained awake long enough to lean over his private intercom and mutter, “You might as well come out of hiding. He’s gone.”
A voice replied promptly, “I’m on my way.”
She’s paying attention, he observed to no one in particular. That’s good. One of us ought to.
Consoling himself with that thought, he let himself fall into the dark without Maxim Igensard’s provocation.
Once again the sound of his intercom pulled him out of dreams he couldn’t recollect and didn’t care about.
“Captain Vertigus?” Marthe’s replacement was barely thirty—only a kid. To his ears, confused by sleep, she sounded like she’d just crawled out of her crib. “UMCP Director of Protocol Koina Hannish is here to see you.”
He sighed. “Send her in.”
Warden Dios had paid Milos Taverner to frame Angus Thermopyle. So that the Preempt Act would pass.
Where does Personnel get these damn children? he muttered to himself while he straightened his clothes. Does she think I don’t know who Koina Hannish is?
For a moment or two he missed Marthe so acutely that tears came to his eyes. She’d been his aide—executive assistant and personal secretary in one—for as long as he’d sat on the GCES; and for at least the last fifteen years, ever since his wife died, she’d been his only real companion. The knowledge that she could be blown to bits just because someone somewhere with access to kazes and no heart had taken it into his head to wish death on an old man made Sixten feel bitter and brittle.