In his errands for the IBC, handling millions of credits for clients whose financial privacy was vital, Vesto Slipher traveled with the usual arsenal of security and surveillance disruptors. Most were standard electromagnetic emitters, ion-pulse shredders, and white noise generators—gray-market gear designed to foil any unwanted wiretaps or recording devices that might compromise his clients’ confidentiality. He also traveled with surveillance gear of his own, including the bug that he’d placed under Warden Blirr’s desk.
These days he scarcely gave any of these instruments a second thought as he installed them around whatever workspace he’d been given. Their deployment was, for him, as unremarkable as unpacking his overnight bag.
But this time he’d brought along something special, a gift from the Banking Clan’s lab techs.
“We’re still beta-testing it,” the tech on Muunilinst had told Slipher before he’d departed, handing him a featureless blue tube about the size and width of his index finger. “We call it the blue witch.”
“Poetic,” the Muun said dryly.
The tech shrugged. “It creates a void on the most sophisticated security holo cams. Like a lens flare, except transparent, and it follows you around the room. Works on all electronics, audio and video. Completely undetectable. Careful, though.” He’d tapped a button on the bottom and the thing blinked instantly to life. “She runs hot.”
Slipher had inspected the device and shook his head, handing it back. “I’ve got my own equipment.”
“Uh-uh.” The tech crossed his arms. “He wants you to take it.”
“He does?”
“I spoke to him personally. He wants to be assured that you’ve taken every precaution.”
And so Slipher had brought the thing along with him. Now, sitting in his guest quarters off an unfinished upper level of Cog Hive Seven, he switched on the blue witch and waited for his holo-unit to activate. A high-frequency whine shivered through the air, and within a few seconds he found himself face-to-face with the Muun who had sent him here, arguably the most intimidating presence that he’d ever encountered.
“Magister Damask,” Slipher said, bowing slightly.
“Slipher.” Hego Damask was wearing a long-sleeved robe and a transpirator mask. In the background, the holofeed captured just the faintest hint of whatever world he was currently occupying, an elaborate fortress on a jungle moon of some sort. Slipher thought he could make out the cry of exotic birds in the distance. “You’ve taken all the necessary precautions for this transmission?”
“Yes, Magister.”
“And what have you learned?”
Slipher felt a thin blade of anxiety slide upward from his stomach to press against his chest cavity. Though he’d only spoken twice with Hego Damask before departing for Cog Hive Seven, he’d intuitively grasped that when it came to relaying bad news, it made no sense to waste time. “Distressingly little, I’m afraid.”
“Really.” Damask’s tone was impossible to read. “That is disappointing. Have you made contact with Maul?”
“Not directly, no. But the device that I planted in her office allowed me to listen in on a conversation between him and the warden. He denies knowing anything about Radique—denies, in fact, that he’s even been dispatched here to find him.”
Damask’s eyes narrowed. “So he doesn’t know that I sent you?”
“No, Magister. I was under the impression that you wanted your name kept out of it.” Slipher waited, feeling a thin film of perspiration gathering over his skin. “Was I mistaken?”
For a long time Damask said nothing. “Perhaps Maul’s true mission here is more secret than I was led to believe.”
“If we knew who his control was—” Slipher began.
“I know who his control is,” Damask barked. “That is not the issue.”
Slipher nodded hesitantly. “Sir, if I may …”
“What is it?”
“Is it possible that Iram Radique isn’t on Cog Hive Seven? Or anywhere, for that matter?” With no way of knowing how this hypothesis might be perceived, he drew in a breath and pressed on. “Surely you’ve heard the speculation that the man himself doesn’t truly exist—that he’s, well, a sort of ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“A construct, fabricated by a cabal of arms dealers, a false front created to intimidate the competition. I mean, the fact is that no one has ever actually seen Radique and lived to speak of it. Perhaps Maul is discovering that for himself as well.” Slipher’s voice cracked, and he stopped long enough to swallow and steady himself. “Or someone has gotten to him.”
Again, Damask did not respond right away, choosing to simply gaze back at Slipher over the bridge of his breathing mask. Then he reached out of view of the holo. For a moment Slipher feared he was going to cut off the transmission, but instead a wash of data sprang up, superimposed over the visual transmission—bright columns of digits and various ports of call rising over Damask’s face.
“Eighteen standard months ago,” Damask said, “a vigo from the Black Sun Syndicate docked an unlicensed shuttle out of Gateway. The destination was Cog Hive Seven. That particular cargo was a load of stolen Tarascii explosives that had gone missing from a BlasTech heavy-ordnance satellite the previous year. Six months later the same shuttle docked again. This time it was carrying a load of baradium.”
“May I ask where you acquired this—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Damask said brusquely. “You could have easily uncovered it yourself if you had lived up to your reputation as an analyst.”
“Magister, those specific ingredients …” Slipher stared at the holo, struggling to absorb what was being said along with the columns of data. The conclusion was unavoidable. “You think someone’s actually manufacturing thermal detonators here on Cog Hive Seven?”
“Or worse.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“Our intelligence indicates the most recent shipment to arrive was less than a month ago. Orbital detection identified the payload as weapons-grade depleted uranium.”
For the first time, Vesto Slipher realized that he had nothing to say. Not that it mattered. Damask seemed to have grown tired of listening to him.
“Iram Radique is not a ghost,” Damask said. “Nor is he a construct, a false front, or a figment of communal galactic imagination. He is real. Given the facts at hand, there can be no doubt that he is alive and well and operating somewhere inside Cog Hive Seven. And depending on whatever high-grade ordnance he may be manufacturing next, I have reason to believe that Maul’s mission may represent a greater threat to galactic stability and my own personal safety than even he is aware of.”
“So you’re asking me to—”
“I’m asking you to stop hiding your inadequacy under the pretense of idiotic speculation,” Damask snapped, “and do your job. Get the information before Maul does. Deliver it to me and me alone.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“In the meantime,” Damask said, “you may find it helpful to remember that until you have satisfied your assignment, you can consider yourself a permanent resident of the prison. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir. And may I add, if I have disappointed you in any way—”
But it was too late. The holo was cut short, taking Damask’s face and the data-flow with it. Slipher was talking to dead air.