Scornful Stars Page 42

  “Do we need to implement our Roanoke plan?” Omar asked, guessing at the direction of her thoughts. That was the worst-case scenario for the emergency withdrawal of Pegasus-Pavon assets and personnel from Zerzuran territory. The latest version was sitting on her desk in the Pegasus-Pavon regional headquarters building in downtown Baybars, waiting for her to give the order.

  “Not yet,” she said slowly, glancing back at the newscast. An inset window now appeared in the display, showing the Aquilan envoy—Darrow, she reminded herself—taking questions after his statement. “If the arrival of those cruisers is news here, I have to imagine that their sudden departure from Dahar is certainly news there, which means that everybody in Zerzura knows that the Aquilans are calling the pasha’s government a pirate regime. And everybody in Zerzura also knows that Marid Pasha couldn’t stop them from taking away his new fleet.”

  “You’re thinking that the local decision makers will be distracted by the Aquila-Zerzura crisis.”

  “And the question of whether Marid Pasha can survive politically. No one in the Caliphate wants to back the wrong horse, and the leading power in human space just announced that they regard Marid al-Zahabi as a local criminal with delusions of grandeur. How much do you want to bet that Marid Pasha is already screaming to anyone who’ll listen that he was doing his best to fight piracy until the Aquilans backstabbed him?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll take that bet.”

  Elena smiled to herself in the shadows by the balcony door. “Clever fellow. Notify the executive leadership team that we’re going to meet as early as possible tomorrow morning … say, seven A.M. I want to know whether PR and Legal think we should acknowledge our cooperation with Aquila’s investigation, or stay quiet about it. I’d also like Security and Operations to take a look at what happens if the Zerzura Sector Fleet gives up on enforcement altogether, not that they were doing much to begin with.”

  Omar glanced down at his dataslate and made some notes. “Okay, I’ll pass the word to everybody and pick up the doughnuts and coffee. See you in a few hours, boss.”

  Elena considered going back to sleep, but she found that she was too awake to make that a possibility. The more she thought about it, the more exposed Marid Pasha seemed to be. They say that sunlight is the best disinfectant, she reminded herself. Well, the Aquilans had dropped a fusion bomb of sunlight on Zerzuran politics, and followed it up with an action so spectacular and unexpected that it would be impossible for Marid Pasha to shrug off the accusations as some sort of misunderstanding. More to the point, Marid Pasha and Torgut al-Kassar—and any other Zerzuran officials involved with Rihla Development or similar schemes—couldn’t protect their pirate allies any longer. And that meant the murdered crewhands of Carmela Día and half a dozen other ships and posts might finally receive the justice they deserved. She brewed herself a pot of excellent Mount Kesif coffee and watched the sunrise while savoring that thought.

  By the time the morning meeting arrived, Elena had already decided that Pegasus-Pavon didn’t need to make any special effort to keep its role in the antipiracy investigation quiet. If Marid Pasha attempted to retaliate against the company for helping to establish the facts of Carmela Día’s plundering, he’d only confirm that he had something to hide. Likewise, it seemed unlikely that pirates under the pasha’s control—direct or indirect—could hardly target Pegasus-Pavon shipping without creating similar problems for Marid, so there was no need to implement the Roanoke plan quite yet. Elena’s regional executives agreed that they could await developments, although the heads of security and operations recommended that they continue to vary their arrival and departure schedules until they were certain that the situation in Zerzura had improved.

  Shortly before noon, Elena’s receptionist called to inform her that she had an unscheduled visitor: Meritor Pokk Skirriseh. What does he want? she wondered, but kept it to herself. Instead she cleared her calendar for an hour—it never was a good idea to keep a Paom’ii waiting. “Send him in, and have Mr. Morillo join us,” she told the receptionist. “Hold my calls until our guest is done with his business.”

  The Paom’ii officer shambled into her office and nodded to her. He wore a burgundy kilt and harness with silver fastenings, the alien version of the Velaran naval dress uniform; his people rarely dressed casually. Elena came from around her desk to greet him instead of offering him a seat—Paom’ii didn’t much care for human chairs, either. “Meritor Pokk, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said. “How can I help you today?”

  “Ninety days ago at the Founding Day celebration on Dahar, you asked Captain Szas to look into the disappearance of your ship Carmela Día,” the Paom’ii said without preamble. “Captain Szas explained that we could not proceed to Bursa. You then asked us to urge the Zerzura Sector Fleet to redouble their efforts to find your missing ship. I regret that at the time I assumed the Zerzuran fleet was taking all appropriate steps and that your concerns were unwarranted. Today’s news has now made it clear that you had good reason to be concerned about Zerzuran malfeasance.”

  I don’t believe it, Elena thought. Is a Paom’ii trying to actually apologize for something? She took care to keep her expression neutral, and gave the alien a small nod. “In all honesty, Meritor, I didn’t suspect that such highly placed officials would turn out to be involved. I thought I was up against routine bureaucratic indifference—that’s why I asked for your help.”

  “The Aquilan envoy claims that a Zerzuran firm called Venture Salvage sold cargo stolen from Carmela Día. This claim serves as the critical link that directly ties those highly placed officials to an act of piracy. The Electorate government is greatly disturbed by this possibility, Ms. Pavon. I am required to ask if your company can positively identify the goods in question before the Electorate takes action on this matter.”

  “We can,” she told Meritor Pokk. “There’s no doubt about it—we’ve already identified the specific cargoes by planet and date of sale. I can provide you with our investigators’ reports, if you like.”

  “That will be helpful. Have them sent to me today,” Pokk replied, and turned to go. “Good day, Ms. Pavon.”

  Elena hadn’t expected a thank-you, but she’d hoped that the surprise visit might at least shed a little light on whether the Velaran Electorate agreed with the Aquilan navy’s actions or intended to do anything with the evidence that had been presented. “Just out of curiosity, Meritor: What’s going to happen to the Zerzuran ships?”

  The Paom’ii paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “It is a complicated situation, and the lord arbiter’s office will require some time to make a determination. The ships may be returned to Zerzura. They may be returned to Dremark. They may be claimed by Aquila as prizes. Or they may be scrapped in an effort to find an outcome that satisfies no one, which might be the wisest course of action. I, however, intend to argue before the lord arbiter that the Electorate navy is entitled to compensation for Vashaoth Teh’s destruction and that we should retain possession of at least one ship. After all, the Meliyan Human Revolution’s claim of responsibility for the attack appears to implicate Marid Pasha’s government, and they may have received some amount of technical assistance from Dremark’s Security Bureau. Someone owes us a cruiser, Ms. Pavon.”

  “I see. Thank you, Meritor.”

  Pokk gave a small shrug, and continued on his way without another word. Elena sat down again, gazing after him. She was no diplomat, but one couldn’t run a shipping line doing business in four stellar polities and dozens of worlds without developing some sense for the ebb and flow of international relations. I can’t even imagine how this is all going to sort itself out in the end. I wonder if Sikander saw this coming when he decided to take the pasha’s ships. She shook her head, amused that her Aquilan captain had managed to so completely surprise her. Whatever else happens, Marid Pasha isn’t going to declare independence without a navy … and the Dremish are going to think twice about giving him another one.

&
nbsp; She resolved to ask Sikander about it the next time she saw him. But Decisive departed the next day, and Elena didn’t get a chance to see Sikander before he left.

  * * *

  Gunshots—the shrill chirping reports of mag-weapon fire, to be more precise—awakened Marid al-Zahabi an hour before dawn. His eyes flew open and he rolled out of bed, instantly alert; he’d always had the knack for waking up fast. A concealed holster secured under the side of the bed he customarily slept on held a fine Cygnan mag pistol and a comm device. He drew the weapon, chambered a round, and moved over to crouch behind a large sofa that stood in the bedroom’s sitting area, distantly noting the brilliant gold gleams of sunrise illuminating the marvelous cloudscape his windows overlooked.

  “Major Terzi, report!” he snapped into his personal comm. “What’s happening?”

  Ibrahim Terzi, the commander of Marid’s palace guard, took a long moment to answer. “Troops are moving on the palace, Excellency,” he replied. “I do not believe we can ensure your safety. We must prepare to evacuate.”

  “Troops?” Marid demanded. “What troops?”

  “Your own, sir. They appear to be soldiers of the Third Mansur Guards. General Karacan has issued a declaration stating that he’s temporarily assuming the governorship and instituting martial law.”

  Several questions warred for Marid’s attention at once—What is the meaning of this?, On whose authority?, Which units remain loyal to me?, and Where are we evacuating to?—but he silenced all of them with a single savage growl. He could work out those answers soon enough, if he managed to avoid arrest. In the meantime, every second he spent demanding Major Terzi’s attention reduced his chances of remaining out of General Karacan’s hands, and therefore his ability to fight for his governorship at least a little bit longer. This was an occasion for action, not useless shows of indignation. The first step was simple: Get dressed and get out of the palace before the disloyal troops secured the building.

  “I will be ready in just a moment,” he told Terzi. “Come get me.” Then he hurried over to his closet and dressed himself. It would be Karacan, he fumed as he pulled on his clothes. The general was up to his eyeballs in his own unofficial activities, raking in a vast fortune from various creative military purchasing agreements and a willingness to look the other way when paid to do so. No doubt he’d come to the conclusion that moving against Marid was the surest way to appease the Caliphate jurists and news networks emboldened by the events of the last few weeks to examine questions of public corruption, and perhaps evade scrutiny for his own wrongdoing. He might even hope that he’ll be able to assume my governorship by being the loudest member of the mob coming after me, the miserable dog!

  He tapped his comm device again as he dressed, and called Torgut al-Kassar. “Admiral, I am shifting my command center to the fleet base. Make sure that the security stations and defensive systems are manned by troops personally loyal to you—many of our personnel may be confused about whose orders to follow.”

  The admiral scowled. “I’m working on that, but Karacan’s damned broadcasts aren’t making it any easier. My own flag lieutenant just tried to arrest me. Can’t you shut down his access to the planetary comm network or issue a statement of your own?”

  “I would prefer to do that from the vantage of High Port,” Marid Pasha said. “In the meantime, I would like you to make sure that no one shoots down my orbiter on approach.”

  He cut the connection and headed for the door, fastening the last button of his military tunic as he emerged. Terzi and his escort—eight veteran soldiers, each of them a man who had served with Marid in campaigns going back almost thirty years—waited in the antechamber. The firing outside had died down; he hoped that meant his palace troops had repelled the Mansur Guards for the moment.

  “The landing pad, Major,” Marid said. “We must reach my orbiter.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency,” the major said. He fell in beside Marid.

  Marid took three steps, heading down the hall toward the palace’s landing pad … and then froze in midstride as he felt the barrel of Terzi’s mag pistol in his ribs. At the same time, six of the guards in his detachment suddenly pivoted to point their weapons on the remaining two. “You, too?” he said, glaring at his chief bodyguard.

  “General Karacan gave me very specific instructions before sending his troops to secure the palace, Your Excellency,” said Terzi. He carefully disarmed Marid, taking the pistol from his holster and tucking it into his own waistband. “I sincerely apologize, but the situation demands your arrest and replacement. I had no choice but to comply.”

  “What now?” Marid asked. “You’re a fool if you think that Karacan is going to survive this. Whatever he promised you, Major, you’re never going to see it.”

  “That may be true, but we have to start somewhere, sir. When evidence implicating General Karacan surfaces, I’ll arrest him too.” Terzi shrugged. “It’s long past time for someone to clean up Zerzura. You used to be an honest man and an honorable commander; I’d like to think that part of you recognizes that this is necessary.”

  To his surprise, Marid found that the major’s words stung him. He bit back on angry retorts and empty threats before he lost his composure, and simply nodded at the two guards who had remained loyal to him. “Lower your weapons, old friends,” he told them. “I don’t want your blood on my conscience. Let’s go, Major.”

  Shoulders squared and head held high, Marid Pasha marched off to meet his fate.

  * * *

  Otto Bleindel woke up in a clean white room with windows that looked out over a brilliant blue sea. A pleasant lassitude seemed to infuse every centimeter of his body, although he was aware of a dull and distant ache on the left side of his jaw and additional soreness on the right side of his chest and in his right hip. I’m sedated, he realized. Now why would someone do that? It was a curious little mystery, but it didn’t seem very important to solve it right away, so he gazed at a green palm frond waving gently in a breeze and thought about nothing at all for a long time.

  After a while, a metallic clatter on the other side of the room caught his attention. With an effort, he rolled his head to look the other way, and saw that the doorway leading into the room was secured by steel bars. A round-faced woman in a white doctor’s coat waited patiently while two soldiers in the green jackets of the Aquilan Commonwealth Marine Corps unlocked the door and escorted her inside. She came over to his bedside, and nodded in satisfaction when she saw that he was awake.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bleindel,” she said. “I’m Commander Soto, and I’m the doctor entrusted with your care. I have to say that you’re looking much better today. I don’t think you’ll be staying with me much longer.”

  “Where am I?” he asked, and regretted it almost at once. Talking hurt his jaw—there was nothing distant or dull about the stab of pain that came from speaking aloud.

  “Careful, there,” Soto told him. “Your mandible—er, jawbone—was badly damaged by a mag dart, and while we manufactured a good fill for the missing bone, you still have some serious dental work ahead of you once the new bone finishes healing up. To answer your question, you’re in the medical ward of the brig in the Tawahi Island Naval Base on Neda. You’ve been unconscious for most of the last two weeks, so I imagine that’s a little disorienting.”

  “I’m a prisoner,” he said, careful to move his mouth as little as possible when he spoke—a statement, not a question.

  “I’m afraid so, although that hasn’t made any difference in the medical care you’re receiving. We are doing our best to help you recover from your injuries. What happens after that is not in my hands, but you still have your life, Mr. Bleindel. That was touch and go for a while.”

  “Injuries?” he asked. The trick to managing the sore jaw was to avoid using any more words than he absolutely had to.

  “The jaw you already know about. You’re fortunate that you were hit from the side; the dart passed through your mouth without h
itting any vital structures, although I know it’s very uncomfortable. You also were shot in the right hip—that one cracked your pelvis and required the surgical repair of your hip socket—and through your right lung, which very nearly killed you. Oh, and you also had a clean through-and-through in your left calf muscle, but that wasn’t so bad. Fortunately the Navy corpsman who treated you aboard Meduse managed to keep you stable until Decisive’s Dr. Ruiz was able to take over your treatment at Meliya. You owe your life to their efforts.”

  Meduse, Bleindel realized. I was aboard Meduse. The Aquilans seized the cruisers in the shipyard, and we armed Neu Kiel’s sailors to take them back. Then the rest of it came back to him—the fight in the passageway outside the bridge, the escape scuttle, the search for something that could be turned into a bomb, the confrontation with Sikander North … “He shot me!” he snarled in anger, and instantly regretted it.

  “Well, yes,” Dr. Soto said. “That’s what I was just explaining. Can I get you anything, Mr. Bleindel? You’re not ready for solid food, but we can bring you a protein shake or some pudding.”

  Bleindel waved her away. “Not hungry.”

  “I’ll check back on you in a little bit,” the doctor replied, evidently deciding to choose her battles. She retreated from the room, leaving Bleindel to his thoughts.

  Two days after he first woke up—and half a dozen protein shakes later—Bleindel felt strong enough to sit up in bed, which provided him with a better view of the bars on the windows and bright sand beach outside. As much as he would have liked to surprise his Aquilan hosts by escaping from their medical ward, he had to admit that wasn’t going to happen with his right leg immobilized from knee to pelvis and barely enough strength to reach for the attendant call button when he needed help relieving himself. That afternoon, Dr. Soto returned with a familiar face: a towering, brawny man in the uniform of Gadira’s Royal Guard.