Traitor's Sun (13 page)

“Do you think that we will have Federation Marines invading Thendara, then?” Mikhail was only half serious.

“I hope not. And I do not really expect such an assault, although it could happen, if someone decided that Darkover had strategic importance. No, the greatest danger is that the Federation itself will crumble, and that there will be splinter groups, with their own ambitions for power and dominance. A planetary governor or some local king with a few captured dreadnoughts could be real trouble. Or worse, if some admiral in the Force decides to mutiny and go adventuring for his own profit.” There was a grim look on his father-in-law’s face now.

“Do the Terranan know that?”

“Some of them certainly do. There are people within the Federation who have likely given as much thought to this, over the years, as I have. The problem is, however, these people have no power and do not make policy. It’s probably the nightmare of the General Staff, that some planet will manage to get hold of enough armaments to be a threat to Terran security. There have been a few rebellions in the last fifteen years, planets where the populace revolted, or the governor went off on his own hook. They have been put down with force, but with enough restraint to keep things from getting completely out of hand. Again, it was the function of the Senate to keep things from getting to that point, to restrain the Premier and the General Staff from making overt war on too many worlds. But I think you must talk to Herm since his information is more recent than mine.”

“I suppose I must. I just don’t feel as if I am ready. Everyone has been telling me for years how powerful I am because of this accursed ring,” he said, making a fist of his gloved hand. “But I do not feel powerful. I don’t have Regis’ charm or cunning, nor his experience, although I have tried to learn all I could.”

“You will do very well, Mikhail. Regis believed that, and I do as well.”

“I am glad I will have you to advise me, Lew, and Herm as well. And I am even more glad I do not have the Aldaran Gift because I think that if I could foresee the future, I would be too frightened to do anything at all. I would give a great deal to have some of my youthful certainty back again, instead of all these doubts.”

“If you did not have doubts, Mikhail, I would be very concerned.”

“That is an odd thing to say, even for you.” Lew was notorious in Comyn Castle for voicing outrageous opinions as if they were the merest commonplace.

“The man who is absolutely sure of himself is much more dangerous than the one who entertains uncertainty. Robert Kadarin was such a man, and so was old Dyan Ardais. They paid a great price for their pride and vanity, and nearly ruined this world in the process. You are a thoughtful man, and that is exactly what is needed at present.”

“Thank you for your confidence. It means a great deal to me, especially now.” He was too tired to think about the future any longer. It was too big and very frightening. He needed to change the subject, talk about more mundane matters. “You said Herm brought his family? Have you met them yet? Have they been seen to properly?”

“I stopped in and greeted them before I came to you. Since I did not feel I could leave the Castle myself, I let Rafael do the welcoming, which I think he was glad to do, since it got him out of Gisela’s clutches for a short time. The wife, Katherine, is a very lovely woman from Renney, with hair like night and a forceful chin. She has a son, Amaury, from her first marriage—she was a widow—and she and Herm have a daughter, Terése, as well. A pretty child, and so like Marguerida at the same age that it nearly made my heart turn over in my chest. They are all exhausted and I suspect that Katherine and the children are more than a little frightened at the prospect of being exiled on Darkover for the rest of their lives. Herm, however, seems very glad to be home—and I can certainly understand why!”

“Renney? Why does that planet sound familiar?”

“Because one of Marguerida’s favorite composers, Korniel, was born there, long ago. It is another Protected Planet, and has a history of uprisings and rebellions, and a strong movement, called the Separatists, which caused trouble from time to time, while I was still in the Senate. It was settled by colonists from Avalon, New Caledonia, and some other places, several hundred years ago. That exhausts my entire knowledge of the place, except that I understand it is very beautiful.”

“I must make them feel welcome.” Regis would have wanted him to greet them, he was sure. Besides, he hadn’t seen Herm in years, and wanted to reacquaint himself with the fellow. Mikhail was disgusted to realize that, for all the will in the world, he could not even attempt this small courtesy.

Lew shook his head. “The first thing you should do is bathe and get some sleep, and perhaps a decent meal. Marguerida has arranged for their needs, and she is planning a small supper for them tomorrow night. Until then, you do not have to do anything except rest. Comyn Castle will run just fine without your attentions for a day or two. The world has not ended with Regis’ death.”

“Maybe not, but why does it feel as if it has?”

There were tears in both men’s eyes as they rose from either side of the desk. Lew blew out the candles and damped down the fire. They stood, shoulder to shoulder for a moment, united in their desire to guide their world through the difficult times that lay ahead, and then Donal opened the door and they left the room.

L
yleBelfontaine, Station Chief at Cottman IV’s HQ, leaned back in his rigid and uncomfortable chair and stared west through his large window, toward the afternoon sun, which was almost hidden behind some watery clouds. It would rain soon, or perhaps a little snow would fall. From his office he could see all the plain, square buildings that made up the headquarters complex—the power generator, the barracks, the hospital, and the rest. It was a good view, in his opinion, because from here he could see nothing of the native “city” of Thendara itself. This suited him very well. He loathed the city, its inhabitants, and, in particular, Regis Hastur and all the other recalcitrant lords of the Domains. Nothing he had done in the years he had been exiled to this godforsaken place had made any more impact on them than a gnat, and he hated being ignored.

After several minutes spent in futile musing, Belfontaine turned around and leaned forward to pick up the skimpy sheet of messagefax that lay on his otherwise empty desk blotter. He read it again, in utter dismay and disbelief. He shifted miserably, for the chair had been constructed for a taller man than he, and was bolted to the floor. He had requisitioned a new one several times, but it never had come. The chair seemed symptomatic of everything he thought wrong with the Federation at present—it was too rigid, and the wrong size.

His features twisted with discontent, and the scar he had gotten in the disastrous mess on Lein III itched across his cheek and brow. Belfontaine could have had it removed, but he had chosen not to. He believed it made him look dangerous and commanded respect. And it was a reminder of his fall from the good graces of the Federation, his removal to this benighted planet with its miserable climate, and his complete failure to execute the plans that had danced in his mind before he arrived. He had been determined to do what no one else had managed—deliver Cottman IV to the Federation on a platter. But thus far he had not succeeded, or come even close. If only he was not forced to act through underlings, and work with stupid, obstinate people like Lew Alton. At least he had gotten rid of Captain Rafe Scott—forced him to retire. Let him run his mountaineering expeditions to the Hellers—he hoped he’d break his arrogant neck or freeze to death. In fact, if the entire population turned to icicles, he would be very pleased. The place was marginal at best, but if there were no native people, then the planet could be colonized, and he could be made Governor-General, at least.

Now everything he had hoped for was ruined! The entire Federation staff was being ordered off Cottman, in only thirty days. He shook his head, ran nervous fingers through graying hair, then crunched up the missive and tossed it toward the disposal chute. It missed, falling short and dropping to the floor. The crumpled message lay there, mocking him. His chance to redeem himself, to get back in favor, was slipping away, all because of Premier Nagy and her ruthless ambition! Maybe it was a mistake. This was not the time for the Federation to pull back!

He only needed another year—two at most—and the title of Governor-General would surely be his. Not, of course, that this was what he wanted. Being governor of a place like Cottman IV would not satisfy his ambitions, but it would have been a beginning. He was sure he could have parlayed it into a better position, one on a planet where he could wield real power and influence. Cottman was as worthless a piece of rock as he had ever seen.

God, how he hated the planet. Sometimes he dreamed of calling in a Strike Force, to slag the whole place down to radioactive magma, boiling away into the void. It seemed such a suitable fate for a damned cold place, where the filthy natives believed that Hell was a freezer. It was only a fantasy, and a wasteful one at that, but the idea kept him from going crazy. Or, failing that, Belfontaine longed for a Task Force, at least. He had done his best to create a situation to justify such an order, so he could at least get a couple of regiments of Marines to “preserve order.” That had worked very well on other worlds, even on members of the Federation itself. But the damned Protected status tied his hands, and unless he could demonstrate that the spaceport was in danger, or Headquarters was besieged by hostiles, it was pointless to request help. All he got was form refusals from some clerk on Alpha, telling him that the present economic problems made it impossible to fulfill his demands. He doubted anyone in charge even saw the reports he was at such pains to generate.

He was surrounded with incompetents! He had agents—true, not many, and not the best that the Security Services had to offer—and he had sent them out to make just the sort of trouble that should have brought him the power he wanted. They had failed him, for the riots he had managed to get started had ceased almost as quickly as they were begun, and Regis Hastur had never applied to him for help. He had used his own Guards, and kept order in a way that won him Belfontaine’s grudging respect, or would have if he had not hated the fellow quite so deeply. He had never met Hastur, and knew of him only through the eerie Danilo Syrtis-Ardais or that damned Lew Alton, who had been appointed to a position that seemed to be the equivalent of Secretary of State, except that Cottman IV didn’t use titles like that. He loathed the tall, one-handed man, and tried to avoid meeting with him whenever possible. There was something uncanny, almost unnatural, about him, something that set his nerves on edge. Alton was a wall that Belfontaine had never managed to get past.

He toyed once again with the idea of sending in a false report. His personal clerk was stupid and obedient, chosen for these qualities, actually, and would not question his orders. She likely would not even read the message, but would only type in the code. Belfontaine shuddered a little. That was exactly what had gotten him sent to Cottman in the first place, with a reduction in rank from Lieutenant General to Colonel, and a black mark on his record. His punishment was this backward, frozen hell where the populace never saw newsfeeds, and could not be influenced except by word of mouth. And Cottman had proved quite resistant to the rumors his agents had tried to spread—almost as if they knew the falseness of them.

Belfontaine’s single attempt to get around the technology restrictions directly had been a complete failure. He had installed mediafeeds in a few of the taverns in the Trade City—even though this was a direct violation of several agreements—and they had been dismantled within a day. It had been a costly mistake, and he was sure that Alton was at the bottom of it. If only he could have had direct access to Regis Hastur, he was sure he could have persuaded the man of the advantages of media screens, which would have easily led to electrification of the city of Thendara, and given the Federation a grip on the attention of the people. But despite many requests, Belfontaine had never been invited to Comyn Castle, and Regis Hastur could have been an imaginary person for all the contact he had had with the man. In a fit of spite, he had put the Medical Center off limits to any except Federation personnel, thinking that the natives would be loath to forgo the conveniences of the place. He’d shut down the John Reade Orphanage as well. That hadn’t worked out either. They were so stupid that they didn’t care about Terran medical technology and they took care of any abandoned children themselves! They didn’t even use Life Extension treatments—except that old fool up in the Hellers, Damon Aldaran—and got old and died!

This, among many other things, offended him. He intended to live for at least a hundred and fifty years—longer if possible. Hell, he’d sell his soul for immortality, if he still believed in souls or gods or any of that other claptrap. But if he did not find some way to get Cottman in his hands before the deadline, some means to destabilize the government, such as it was, he was going to find himself on another backwater world, and never have the money needed to afford the treatments at all. He was close to sixty, after thirty years in various arms of Federation Service, and he would need treatment soon. But the price had risen enormously during the past decade, which he found peculiar. Coming from a corporate family, he had a grasp of basic economics, and knew that the LE treatments should have become cheaper with the passing of time, not more expensive. Someone was clearly making a huge profit on the process. Belfontaine Industries had nothing to do with pharmaceuticals, so he could only speculate in fury.