Orphan Brigade (16 page)

“I'm glad you mentioned Force requirements, Minister. As you know, Platinus was declared secure only two years ago and it is well within the range of Sim fleets. As such—­”

“Oh. So these soldiers who are past their discharge dates are not there voluntarily?”

Merkit's eyes had narrowed, and he seemed on the verge of an accusation of some kind when one of his aides leaned in and whispered to him. He nodded, paused for a moment, and then spoke into the microphone.

“My apologies, Minister. I wasn't familiar with the exact disposition of the troops on Platinus. Apparently local commanders identified Platinus as a good location for quarantined soldiers, troops who had been exposed to some of the many unusual diseases we've encountered on the planets in the war zone. These soldiers are currently showing no symptoms, but because these diseases are new to our medical personnel, the quarantine period is of an indeterminate duration.”

“That certainly makes sense, General. Thank you for clearing that up.” Reena tilted her handheld, and let her eyebrows rise. “One other thing, though: according to my figures, almost all of the troops on Platinus—­discharged or not—­are citizens of Tratia. How did the Tratian leadership respond when they were informed of the large number of their soldiers who'd been quarantined?”

Merkit folded his hands on the table, staring at Reena with a half smile of realization. When one of his officers tried to feed him an excuse, he shook his head minutely, and the assistant subsided.

“The Tratian leadership, as would be expected, is quite concerned about the welfare of their troops—­on Platinus or anywhere else. There are many Force concentrations across the war zone that would appear to reflect an imbalance such as this one, but closer examination usually reveals that it is mere coincidence. For example, there is a very large concentration of troops from your native Celestia on—­”

“Thank you, General, your answer is already sufficient.”

Merkit allowed the smile to broaden. “Are you sure, Minister? I could go on.”

Reena returned the smile, and Merkit's face lost some of its humor. “Are you certain that would be the best use of our time, General? Because I'll let you continue . . . if you think it's wise.”

Merkit's smile vanished. “No, Minister. On second thought I believe I've said enough.”

In the observation room, Olech turned to see Leeger smirking. He grabbed the security man's forearm and squeezed it tightly. “
God
I love that woman.”

“K
letterman.”

“Who?” Ayliss sat down in the chair held by Selkirk, her eyes on Dev Harlec. The data genius had been waiting for them at a table in a restaurant frequented by the Brodan elite. Selkirk took a long look around the crowded floor before seating himself across from Harlec, who was wearing a suit that was only slightly more formal than his normal warm-­up clothes. The contrast reminded Ayliss that Lee looked especially good tonight; a jacket of a dark green fabric outlined his muscular torso to great advantage. Security uniforms were frowned upon in Brodan society, and the rest of her detail was likewise dressed in mufti as they circulated in the cavernous dining room.

“Dr. Yost Kletterman. I've spent the last two days looking for behavioral specialists who disappeared in the last ­couple of years, and he's a prominent name in the field. His last published work was eighteen months ago, and he's listed as being on sabbatical.”

A string quartet was playing somewhere in the wide balcony that circled the room. The restaurant's color scheme was bright gold and rich red, and the cream of the capital city had turned out in all their finery. Data was a lucrative business, and Brodan openness lent itself to displays of wealth. Ayliss herself had chosen a backless silver gown that hugged her curves and looked good next to Selkirk's green.

“This Dr. Kletterman sounds like someone who might just be involved in something he shouldn't be. Any luck finding him?”

“Of course not. If he's doing what we think he's doing, someone's buried him under many layers of cover stories and security classifications.”

“I thought you said scientists don't follow security protocols.”

“They don't. Which is why ­people like your father send them to the war zone and have their communications completely severed. Very thorough ­people, the folks who work for your father.” Harlec gave a dark look at Selkirk.

“Don't I know it.” Ayliss smiled broadly before taking Lee's hand. His head jerked toward her just a hair, and she was surprised to have startled him.

“Sorry.” He raised the hand to his lips, briefly, before returning his eyes to the rest of the room. “Not used to sitting down with you.”

“No reason to be nervous, young man. This is Broda. No one's planning an attack.” Harlec waved his arm, and a jacketed waiter moved toward them. “Anyone watching is most likely wondering why Olech Mortas's daughter is sitting with me.”

Selkirk gave Harlec a smile that Ayliss recognized as something he practiced in the mirror, a look of idiotic acceptance Lee reserved for very senior ­people with whom he completely disagreed. She quickly spoke up.

“So, Dev. Where does this leave us?”

“Having dinner.” Harlec briefly conferred with the waiter, ordered for the three of them without asking permission, then continued. “I'm not stumped, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't wondering at all. I have faith in you.”

“As you should. One of the big advantages of living here is that when I've determined that the answer is not in the existing data, I can often turn to others to find that data, sometimes even to create it. I'm not the only denizen of this planet who came here because of an ideological disagreement with the authorities elsewhere.”

“And who are these other criminals?”

“Oh, they're not so much criminals as persons of intellect who, unlike me, would rather not come into direct contact with you. But they did share some of their thoughts, based on their own research.”

“Someone else was looking for this Kletterman?”

“Don't be silly. I wouldn't take them down the same dead end I'd already investigated. No, I asked if they'd encountered anything that might sound similar to your theory about Command dabbling in behavioral modification.”

“And they had.”

“In a manner of speaking. I was intentionally vague, to avoid biasing the results, and it had a serendipitous effect in that they haven't seen anything involving
human
behavior.”

“I do hope you're not going to tell me you're surprised that Command is studying the enemy.”

“Nothing Command does surprises me. But this is important: there is a small group of linguistic experts who have been trying to decode the Sim language for many years. They're not the first, and I understand this has been an ongoing project in the Force since the start of the war, but this is a private collaboration. Their hope is to open a dialogue with the Sims, with the intention of negotiating a peace. As you can imagine, ­people like your father probably wouldn't like that at all.

“So they're staying very much in the shadows. It's been enormously harmful to their research, but they've assembled a surprising amount of knowledge from casual interviews with returned veterans and nonmilitary contractors. Funny thing about the war zone—­Command's information monopoly ends as soon as somebody gets home.”

“I'm not seeing how this connects to what we're doing.” Selkirk spoke lightly, his eyes momentarily halted on Harlec's face.

“Oh, is it
we
now? Well, I suppose one does have to join in on the battles of one's romantic interest. Even if one probably doesn't understand a word of it.”

Ayliss's hand tightened on Lee's, and Harlec gave an airy grin when the security man subsided.

“To continue. The Sim language—­or languages, that's how little we understand of this—­consists of birdlike sounds that we humans have difficulty discerning, much less imitating. However, the Sims do have a written form of communication. It may be nothing more complicated than a basic symbology, or it may be more complex than that.

“Captured Sim equipment was a good start, basically matching up a symbol to an item's function. For example, the symbols for an On and Off switch.” Harlec turned to Selkirk. “Still with us?”

“Don't be like that, Dev.”

“Sorry. I was a teacher for many years and sometimes went too fast for some of my students. To resume, the linguists' research recently revealed something interesting. A number of years ago, during a prolonged campaign for control of a particularly arid Hab planet, the Sims attempted to poison our troops by leaving caches of tainted water in the path of advancing Force units.

“In addition to the Sim symbol for water, these containers had a previously unknown marking that, based on the results, is believed to indicate poison. You see, the Sims leaving the contaminated water behind didn't want to take the chance of ignorant comrades finding and drinking it. It seems that the evil enemy has a heart after all.

“More recently, several small supply dumps captured by our troops yielded crates of Sim emergency rations bearing the same symbol, the one for poison.”

“But that makes no sense. Humans can't eat Sim food. For us it
is
poison. So why contaminate their own rations?” Ayliss's blue eyes became unfocused as she tried to sort through the puzzle.

“Because they're not trying to poison humans.” Selkirk's face had grown hard, and his eyes burned into Harlec's.

The scientist displayed amused wonderment. “Remarkable. I may have misjudged you. Or perhaps not . . . ­people in your line of work do develop a kind of low animal cunning, so I'm not surprised you understood this so readily.”

“Finish the story.”

“Your boyfriend is right. The only target for such a trick would have to be of Sim physiology.”

“But that doesn't make sense. No Sim POW has lasted more than a few days in human captivity, even when they were fed with their own rations.”

“It seems that the enemy believes someone, somewhere, has gotten around that.”

“And are they right?”

“Yes.” For the first time, Harlec looked at the ­people seated closest to them. Placing a hand on Ayliss's shoulder, he leaned forward and whispered directly into her ear. “And you'd be so very surprised to know where they are.”

“A
bsolutely not. You do not go anywhere without me and the detail. And you have to be out of your mind to trust that little bastard Harlec. Secret gang of linguists my ass.”

Back in their rooms, Selkirk stood with his arms folded across his chest. Harlec had arranged for Ayliss to meet the ­people who believed they'd discovered an ongoing Sim prisoner-­of-­war camp, but the group was so fearful of her father that they'd agreed to meet Ayliss and Ayliss alone. She'd agreed before Selkirk could stop her, and an emissary was due to arrive at any moment.

“Don't you see this is the only way? I go by myself, or I don't go at all.”

“So don't go at all. I don't trust that Harlec, never have, and even if
he
believes this fairy tale, what does that mean? Guy stares at a screen all day long.”

“He's plugged in with all sorts of ­people who hate my father. He got chased off Earth—­why would he be lying?”

“I already said it. Maybe Harlec's dumb enough to believe this story, but it doesn't mean we have to be. We don't even know who these supposed conspirators are, and you're wrong to think that your fight with your father puts you in both camps and keeps you safe. Powerful ­people get snatched all the time, and it usually happens when they ditch their security.”

Her eyes were damp when Ayliss walked up and placed her palms flat against his chest. She'd already changed into a set of dark travel clothes and boots, but Selkirk still wore the suit from dinner. She tilted her head to one side, stopping the tear that had almost rolled out.

“I know there's a risk. But everything is falling into place. Don't you see that? The camp we're talking about is on
this
side of the CHOP line.
Well
on this side. That breaks so many laws, and is so unacceptable, that there is no way anyone connected to this could escape punishment if it was made public. I've wanted this for so long, and you're going to deny it to me?”

“I'm trying to protect you.” His arms unfolded, and he pulled her close. “This is what I do. No one in my position would let you do this.”

“You don't understand. You don't know what it was like, being pushed aside the way Jan and I were. We were raised by strangers while Olech was partying on the Bounce. A lot of ­people said my father changed when my mother died, but I don't believe that. I think he finally showed who he actually was—­a cold, selfish bastard only out for himself who never wanted us. He was my
father
, for God's sake, and he's going to pay for what he did.”

“Look. If this POW cage really does exist, we can find it some other way. Why rush like this? Why take the chance?”

The door buzzer sounded, and she looked up at him in pained resolution. “I
have
to.”

Ayliss broke away and activated the door. It was dark outside, and at first all she could see was the outline of a large man. He quickly stepped across the threshold, and the outline resolved into the form of Python, her longtime conduit to illicit information. Ayliss's face must have registered surprise, because Python glanced at Selkirk and then gave her a broad smile.

“Oh come on. You didn't think I was just a drug dealer, did you?”

T
he armored mover was a big vehicle on bulletproof tires, and it rolled up next to a shuttle when they reached the spacedrome. Python was ready for her consternation at seeing that her trip to meet the linguists would involve an interplanetary craft.