Chapter 28

 

Another useless day spent chasing elusive facts that would prove false, Lowell thought. Any file he managed to find and decode turned out to be planted. He was outmaneuvered at every turn.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. He'd tried everything. He was too buried here, too close to too many people who wanted him powerless. Patrol Headquarters was nothing more than a trap. He had no freedom of movement. He had no way to access anything that mattered.

He sighed and wondered how long he could keep up the pretense of working. It had been over a week since his visit from Kidri and Seya Maharta. He hadn't been able to verify anything they had told him. His not so hidden requests for information on the current situation at Besht resulted in a flood of meaningless reports. He had dutifully read through all of them, searching for some clue to the truth. He had found nothing. If Besht had joined the Federation, he was going to have to hear about it through the news, like everyone else. If Commander Wexford had taken the Fleet with him, he was going to have to learn about it the same way. No one in the Patrol building would ever tell him anything useful.

It was almost evening, almost time to leave. He watched the clock slowly tick away two minutes.

"Screw this," he muttered. It was almost an hour early. He was leaving anyway.

He pushed himself away from his elegant, empty desk. He opened the door to his office. His secretary looked up from her desk. The rest of his staff glanced at him then back to their work.

"Is there something I can do, sir?" the secretary asked.

"I'm leaving early," he informed her.

"Is anything wrong?"

He wanted to shout at her that everything was wrong but it wouldn't have solved anything. It might have gotten him sent to medical for a full evaluation. He smiled at her instead.

"I just want some personal time. Even High Command needs a vacation sometimes."

"Very good, sir," she said. "Enjoy your evening. Will you be reporting back in the morning?"

"I'll call and let you know."

He walked out of the office. Their stares followed him, he could feel it. He knew if he turned around none of them would actually be looking, though. He didn't bother with such juvenile tricks. He was feeling much too old.

He walked out of the building, oblivious to the salutes he got. The evening air was warm and soft. The sun was just sinking below the horizon. He stopped, staring up past the towering buildings at the sky. The blue was tinged with pink and gold. Streams of flitters made black specks across the perfect blending of colors. People walked around him on all sides. He watched the sky for a while, hands in his pockets even though the uniform was never designed to be worn that way.

He sighed and dropped his gaze back to the plaza around him. The stream of officers on duty change was increasing. He could turn around and head back for his plush apartment, deep in Patrol territory. He knew it was monitored by at least seven different groups. His every breath was recorded, his every move watched. He couldn't face it, not tonight. He started walking, across the broad stretch of plascrete that separated the Patrol from the civilians.

He pulled his rank pins from his collar as he passed into the shadow of the tall buildings that surrounded the Patrol complex. He wanted to be anonymous, at least as much as he could be. He was sure someone would follow him, if not several someones. He made himself not care.

He walked until a sign caught his eye. He ate dinner at a bustling restaurant. The table next to him was full of people celebrating something. He ate alone and wished he had someone to share with.

He left the restaurant and wandered farther through the city. He spent a while in a bar, watching people laughing and singing and talking and fighting. He missed Paltronis. He knew the rumors about them and halfway wished they had been true. She'd been his friend, nothing more, but that by itself was more than he felt he could have asked from her.

He watched people and realized how isolated he'd made himself. He used to justify it, telling himself it was necessary to his job. Maybe it was, but it made a lonely life.

He left the bar more depressed. He walked the streets, not paying attention to where he was headed. Force of habit carried him back to the Patrol compound and his apartment.

He stood in front of his door, tired to the bone but too restless to sleep. What good would it do to keep going through the motions? His job was a farce. He had failed. The Empire was self-destructing. He sighed and thumbed the lock.

The door slid open. He stepped inside. The door slid shut. The lights glowed softly.

Everything in the room was deep blue or silver, the official Patrol colors. He had a sudden craving for bright orange and purple decor. Anything but the reminder of who he was supposed to be.

He crossed the room then opened the drapes. It was only a viewscreen pretending to be a window, but it was better than staring at the tastefully understated Patrol emblem woven into the curtain fabric. He hit the controls for the viewscreen. Its silver surface shimmered and cleared to show a view of deep space. Stars burned clear and cold. He stared at it for a long moment.

"Lights off," he said.

The room controls responded. The lights dimmed, leaving him standing in the glow of the viewscreen. He backed slowly, dropping into his favorite chair. He'd spent more nights than he wanted to think about sleeping here, staring at the viewscreen until his eyes glazed over. He still didn't find any answers.

He closed his eyes, sinking down into the chair. Paper crackled under the cushion. His eyes popped open. Paper in his chair? He sat very still. He was being watched, he knew it. He also knew how to jam the devices watching him.

If he jammed them, whoever had planted the bugs would want to know why. Was it worth it for a piece of paper buried in his chair? It could be nothing, a stray bit that had slipped into the chair and was missed by the cleaning staff. It could be something important, though, left by someone who knew how closely he was watched.

He closed his eyes again, shifting his weight. The paper crackled. He was tempted to just leave it, but his curiosity demanded to be satisfied. The only real question was whether he was going to fuzz out the bugs or not. He sighed, pretending to be falling asleep. He slipped his hand along the edge of the cushion. He could just feel the edge of the paper. It was more than a scrap. His heart sped up in excitement.

"View one forty seven," he said to the viewscreen.

It obediently winked to silver. Flashes of static danced across the screen. He'd programmed it years ago and never thought he'd have to use it. It was a special view, one that interfered with just about every frequency used for surveillance.

He moved quickly, sitting forward and pulling the paper out of the chair. He smoothed out the wrinkles. Dace's face looked up at him from the page, her picture pulled from an old file. He read the words under her face and froze. His shoulders sagged. He'd lost again. He was powerless to stop them.

No. Not this time. He was going to pull out every favor he'd ever been owed. He was going to do whatever he had to for her.

He put the paper on the low table in front of his chair. Someone had the nerve to kidnap Dace and put her up for auction. He was going to stop them, in whatever way he could.

He wondered who would have left the paper for him to find. It didn't really matter. He knew he had a few loyal people left. They were afraid to show it, to let him know who they were. One of them had to have left this paper.

He sat back in his chair, studying the page. He had to plan, to think. The page didn't specify a location, only a date. He had three weeks. He had to find out where. He had to move troops as fast as he could. This time he wasn't going to leave anything to chance.

He pulled out his handcomp.

"Viewscreen off," he said. He no longer cared who monitored him. Let them see what he was doing. Let them try to stop him.

He typed on his handcomp. Data flowed across the screen. The encryption on most of the files barely slowed him. These weren't the files they were trying to keep hidden from him, these were ordinary classified files from the Patrol database.

Three hours later, he had narrowed down the location to one of a dozen possibilities. He wondered why they would try to auction Dace off at an arms bazaar instead of a slave market. It didn't seem important. What was important was that whoever had her felt confident enough to advertise they had her. It was a mistake they were going to regret.

He saved the information then leaned back. It was early morning now. He hadn't slept but he wasn't tired. He had a purpose again. He didn't want to admit how good it felt to have something definite, something useful to do.

He gathered up the paper and his handcomp. He tapped the com by his door.

"Message for the High Command," he said crisply. "Full briefing is called for this morning, eight sharp. Authorization High Commander Grant Lowell, head of the High Command."

He clicked the com off. They couldn't ignore him or excuse themselves without penalties, not when he used that code. He knew it and so did the rest of the High Command.

He had two hours to prepare. He would convince them to move and move now. Enough pretending that a war wasn't happening. Enough pretending the Empire was the same as always. Enough pretending everything was normal. It was time to take decisive action. He would make them see it his way. The Fleet would move.

He showered and changed, carefully attaching his rank pins to his collar. Don't let them forget who he really was. He commanded them all and this time they would know it.

He walked quickly through the compound. This time he saluted back. He bypassed the floor for his office, rising higher to the level where the conference room was located.

He surprised the officer sitting watch outside the room. She stared blankly at him.

"I called a conference for this morning," he said. "Please make sure everything is prepared on time."

She jumped to attention and saluted him. "Yes, sir," she stammered.

"As you were," he said, brushing past her into the conference room.

He moved to the head of the long table that dominated the room. He was High Commander, it was his right to sit at the head. He sat in the chair and connected his handcomp to the datafeed located in the table.

He worked furiously. He had to have enough information to convince the others to move on his command. He had to justify a strike deep in Federation space. He had to have enough information to convince them to go after the syndicates. Rescuing Dace was personal. It wasn't going to be enough for the rest of them.

By eight, when the others began to arrive, he sat calmly at the table. The officer on guard had fetched breakfast. Several trays of pastries and hot drinks waited near the door. Lowell sipped his drink as he watched the other members of the High Command enter the room.

"What is this all about, Lowell?" sleepy-eyed Edwards asked.

"Full council of the High Command," Yambasa said. "Was it really necessary?"

"You're questioning me?" Lowell raised one eyebrow.

The others glanced at his rank pins. It was a not so subtle reminder of who was in charge.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's going to be good," Vandergilt muttered as she took her seat.

Lowell waited until they were settled. They'd all brought staff with them. The others sat in the background and took notes, whispering to each other.

Lowell stood, waiting for the whispers to die down. The High Command watched him, waiting to see what he had to say.

"We've been too passive," Lowell said. "We need to strike."

"Then why did you prevent it months ago when we were poised to take out the Federation Fleet?" Yambasa questioned. "We are not in position now."

"We've fallen back to defensive lines," Vandergilt added.

"We aren't striking at the Federation," Lowell said. "We're going after the real enemy."

"You are delusional," Edwards said, jabbing a finger in Lowell's direction. "The Federation is the enemy here. You've been claiming shadow enemies for years. Where is your proof?"

"Here," Lowell said sharply. He tapped the controls. Files and maps and diagrams bloomed over the table. "The syndicates—"

"Are not the issue," Yambasa said. He slapped the table. The projections snapped off. "You want us to take whatever we have left and chase ghosts?"

"There is an arms bazaar being held on Hestus in three weeks," Lowell said. "Most of the leaders of the active syndicates will be there. We can take them all at the same time."

"Hestus is not our concern," Julainis put in, speaking for the first time. "It is well beyond our current border."

"The syndicates don't respect borders," Lowell said. He was losing them.

"We do," Yambasa said. "Which is why we're the ones enforcing the laws. Or have you lost sight of that as well, Commander Lowell?"

"Hestus is Federation," Edwards said, tapping on his handcomp.

"We can send the information to them," Vandergilt said. "Let them pull some of their forces back to deal with it. And when they weaken their line, we strike. We can take back Landruss if we push it. We have the ships in position."

"We don't want to shoot our own people," Lowell protested.

"Landruss isn't ours anymore," Edwards said. "They are now the enemy. We are at war, Commander."

"You wouldn't know it to watch you," Lowell said.

"This council is over," Yambasa said.

They stood, talking quietly as they left. Their staff trailed out behind them. Lowell stared down at the table in defeat. He knew whatever orders he gave were going to be ignored and misplaced. He also suspected he would receive orders to report to the psych techs for a full evaluation before the day was out. They'd find him incompetent and relieve him of duty, if he was lucky. If not, they would have him locked up for the rest of his life.

He scooped his handcomp off the table and hurried out of the room. He ignored the looks he got from the staff outside.

He went directly to the garage. The tech there didn't argue when he demanded a flitter. He waited impatiently for the ten minutes it took for them to bring one up for him.

He lifted off, setting course for the Imperial palace. Max and Iniuri had maneuvered him into this position. He was going to use them now, as ruthlessly as they had used him.

He held onto his anger during the flight to the palace. He waited impatiently through the required security scans before they let him into the palace proper. He walked swiftly down the halls to the reception room where he knew Maximillius would be holding court.

The receptionist guarding the door stopped him. "Do you have an appointment, Commander? I don't have you listed."

"It was an oversight, I'm sure." Lowell stepped past the receptionist. Two guards moved to block him from entering.

"You aren't listed here, I'm sorry," the receptionist said.

"I'm demanding an appointment for right now," Lowell said to him.

"Sir, you should calm yourself," the receptionist said. He signaled the guards.

Lowell shoved past them and pushed the doors open.

Max was seated at a table, deep in conversation with five other people. He glanced up at Lowell. The Emperor didn't look imposing this morning. He was wearing a tunic and breeches, not robes of state. There was an air of command to him that made him impossible to ignore, though. He stood from the table.

"I think we should continue this discussion another time," he said to the people at the table. "Excuse me, please."

He crossed the room to Lowell. He didn't look happy. The people at the table watched Lowell speculatively as they filed out of the room.

"Why are you here?" Maximillius asked as the door swung shut. "You have bad news for me? The Federation forces have landed, perhaps?"

"You'd know that before I did," Lowell said. "You put me in position as High Commander. Then you tie my hands. Why?"

"Why, what, Grant?"

"You know my situation there. You know every move I make is watched. You know my orders are ignored. The High Command walked out on me this morning. It's only a matter of time before they have me removed completely. Was that your plan?"

"Far from it." Max rubbed his forehead. "Sit down. I believe there are drinks on the table."

"Then what were you planning?" Lowell demanded.

"I wanted you on the High Command so I could sleep at night. I wanted someone I could trust in the Patrol building." Max poured himself a glass of red juice and sipped. He made a face at the tart taste. "I understand you are the one to thank for keeping the trade routes open."

"If you can call it that. You do know that juice was smuggled in."

"Highly illegal, yes. The Patrol can't seem to catch the smugglers, though. But that isn't why you're here." He set his glass carefully on the table. He studied the juice as if the answers were somewhere to be read in the dark liquid. "Edwards called me and told me you were unstable, that you demanded we attack the Federation immediately."

"He's lying," Lowell said. "I said nothing of the kind."

"Then tell me the truth, Grant. Explain to me what is so important you want the Patrol to pull out all the stops and invade Federation space."

"In three weeks, the syndicates will be at an arms bazaar."

"On Hestus? Or one of eight other planets. I already know about their activities. Hestus is in Federation space. They will be informed."

"The Patrol can be there more quickly. We strike hard and we can cripple the syndicates."

"Which you seem convinced are behind everything. Grant, have you considered that you are seeing things that aren't there?"

"You don't believe me."

"I believe that there is an arms bazaar being held in three weeks. What is your real reason for wanting to break it up?"

"They have Dace. She's one of the items up for sale."

"Ah. That explains much." Max picked up his glass and swirled the juice around. "You want to start a real war with the Federation over her. You tried it before. The Fleet stays where it is."

"Then give me four ships," Lowell said.

Max shook his head. "You are needed here, Grant. Your post is here, at the High Command. The answer is no."

"I'm not trying to start a war, Max. I've been fighting to prevent it. You know that. Give me four hunters and I'll make it stop."

"One woman, Grant? You'll start a war that will kill millions, if not more. The answer is still no. And don't think of leaving on your own."

"I'll resign," Lowell threatened.

"I won't let you. You know too much. I can't let you. Not even for Dace." Max sipped his juice, watching Lowell over the rim of the glass. "Go back to your post, Commander. I'll see what I can do about the rest of the High Command."

"Don't bother," Lowell said. "I'm useless here and you know it."

"I know nothing of the sort. Are you sure you don't want something before you leave?" He waved at the table of juices.

It was a dismissal, another subtle reminder that this was the Emperor and he commanded the Patrol. Lowell answered to him.

Lowell shook his head and turned on his heel.

"Don't take it too hard, Grant," Max called after him. "I was rather fond of her myself."

Lowell very carefully didn't say what he wanted to. He resisted the impulse to slam the door. Anger wasn't going to solve anything and it might get him arrested.

He walked out of the palace, ignoring the looks he got. He was getting too good at ignoring them. He'd had too much practice.

He climbed in the flitter and started back towards Patrol headquarters.

He stared down at the city as he flew. He owed Dace. He had promised to keep her safe from the syndicates. He'd failed. He couldn't leave her to be sold to the syndicates. Maybe he could dig up all the cash he could and go to the sale in disguise. It would be one way to save her.

No, the Emperor wasn't going to let him go. That was more than a veiled threat. Lowell wasn't going to be allowed to leave the Empire. Not unless he was dead.

His hands were tied. He commanded the entire Patrol yet he was unable to command a single ship to go to Hestus to save her. If that was even the right place.

The headquarters of the Patrol were just ahead, a gleaming complex of tall buildings. If he walked back in, he wasn't going to come out again. He felt it, deep in his gut. He tapped the flitter controls and headed for the spaceport instead. It was impulse, but he had to trust his instincts.

He pulled out his handcomp and linked into the planetary datanet. There had to be a ship, a captain he could convince to take him. He pulled up the list of ships in port. There were barely a hundred that weren't Patrol. It was yet another sign of his failure to hold things together.

He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping he had some luck as he read through the list of ships. The spaceport was not far away. His personal com buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed more urgently.

He answered it while he kept scrolling through the ship listings. "Yes?"

"Sir, you are late for a meeting," his secretary said. "The budget committee is waiting on you."

"Tell them to proceed without me," Lowell said. "I'm taking some personal time."

"Sir, I don't have any paperwork authorizing it."

"And who would sign it for me? The Emperor? I just finished talking with him. He suggested a vacation. I'm taking one."

There was dead silence for a long moment. Lowell kept reading the list of ship names.

"Where can I contact you, sir? In case there is an urgent matter that needs your attention."

"Like deciding on yellow or red flowers at the reception? I'm sure you can handle it."

"Sir." She wasn't going to let him go.

"Perlion," he said. "I'm going to visit the retreat in the mountains there. Please don't interrupt me unless it really is important. I should be back in a week."

He clicked off on that lie. Let her think what she would. They would know within the day that he wasn't going to Perlion, if they checked.

He came to the end of the list of ships and stared at the last name. He started to grin. He just hoped Everett was still the captain of the Windrigger. It would simplify things.

Just to confuse the trail, he stopped at the ticket window for the commercial shuttles and bought a pass up to the station. He booked a berth on the next flight to Perlion.

It only took a few minutes for him to locate a back office and a spare pair of dockworker's coveralls. He slipped them on and strolled out of the office. He found a stray bucket and mop and walked right past a pair of Patrol officers keeping watch on passengers.

It was almost too easy. He whistled as he pretended to mop his way to the far end of the terminal where he hoped Everett and his ship were waiting.