A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

VII

Where the equator crossed the eastern shoreline of a continent men called Centralia, Thursday Landing was founded. Though fertile by Diomedean standards, the country had few permanent residents. Rather, migration brought tides of travelers, northward and southward alternately, to their ancestral breeding grounds. At first, once the sharpest edge was off their sexual appetites, they had been glad to hunt and harvest those things the newcomers wanted from the wilderness, in exchange for portable trade goods. Later this business grew more systematized and extensive, especially after a large contingent of Drak’ho moved to these parts. Descending, Flandry saw a fair-sized town.

Most was man-built, blocky interconnected ferrocrete structures to preserve a human-suitable environment from monstrous rains and slow but ponderous winds. He glimpsed a park, vivid green beneath a vitryl dome, brightened by lamps that imitated Sol. Farther out, widely spaced in cultivated fields, stood native houses: tall and narrow, multiply balconied, graceful of line and hue, meant less to resist weather then to accept it, yielding enough to remain whole. Watercraft, ranging from boats to floating communities, crowded the harbor as wings did the sky.

Yet Flandry felt bleakness, as if the cold outside had reached in to enfold him. Beyond the fluorescents, half the world he saw was land, hills, meadows, dwarfish woods, dim in purple and black twilight, and half was bloodily glimmering ocean. For the sun stood barely above the northern horizon, amidst sulfur-colored clouds. At this place and season there was never true day or honest night.

Are you getting terracentric in your dotage? he gibed at himself. Here’s a perfectly amiable place for beings who belong in it.

His mood would not go away. Nevertheless it does feel unreal somehow, a scene from a bad dream. The whole mission has been like that. Everything shadowy, tangled, unstable, nothing what it seems to be … nor anybody who doesn’t carry secrets within secrets …

Myself included. He straightened in the pilot chair. Well, that’s what I’m paid for. I suppose these blue devils of mine come mainly from guilt about Kossara, fear of what may happen to her. O God Who is also unreal, a mask we put on emptiness, be gentle to her. She has been hurt so much.

Ground Control addressed him, in Anglic though not from a human mouth. He responded, and set Hooligan down on the spacefield as directed. The prospect of action heartened him. Since I can’t trust the Almighty not to soldier on the job, let me start my share now.

He had slipped back into space from Lannach, then returned openly. The sentinel robots detected him, and an officer in a warship demanded identification before granting clearance, at a distance from the planet which showed a thoroughness seldom encountered around fifth-rate outpost worlds. No doubt alarm about prospective rebellion and infiltration had caused security to be tightened. Without the orbital information he possessed, not even a vessel as begimmicked as his could have neared Diomedes unbeknownst.

The image of the portmaster appeared in a comscreen. “Welcome, sir,” he said. “Am I correct that you are alone? The Imperial resident has been notified of your coming and invites you to be his house guest during your stay. If you will tell me where your accommodation lock is—frankly, I have never seen a model quite like yours—a car will be there for you in a few minutes.”

He was an autochthon, a handsome creature by any standards. The size of a short man, he stood on backward-bending, talon-footed legs. Brown-furred, the slim body ran out in a broad tail which ended in a fleshy rudder; at its middle, arms and hands were curiously anthropoid; above a massive chest, a long neck bore a round head—high, ridged brow, golden eyes with nictitating membranes, blunt-nosed black-muzzled face with fangs and whiskers suggestive of a cat, no external ears but a crest of muscle on top of the skull. From his upper shoulders grew the bat wings, their six-meter span now folded. He wore a belt to support a pouch, a brassard of authority, and, yes, a crucifix.

I’d better stay in character from the beginning. “Many thanks, my dear chap,” Flandry replied in his most affected manner. “I say, could you tell the chauffeur to come aboard and fetch my bags? Deuced lot of duffel on these extended trips, don’t y’ know.” He saw the crest rise and a ripple pass along the fur, perhaps from irritation at his rudeness in not asking the portmaster’s name.

The driver obeyed, though. He was a husky young civilian who bowed at sight of Flandry’s gaudy version of dress uniform. “Captain Ahab Whaling?”

“Right.” Flandry often ransacked ancient books. He had documentation aboard for several different aliases. Why risk alerting someone? The more everybody underestimated him, the better. Since he wanted to pump his fellow, he added, “Ah, you are—”

“Diego Rostovsky, sir, handyman to Distinguished Citizen Lagard. You mentioned baggage? … Jumping comets, that much? … Well, they’ll have room at the Residency.”

“Nobody else staying there, what?”

“Not at the moment. We had a bunch for some while, till about a month ago. But I daresay you know that already, seeing as how you’re Intelligence yourself.” Rostovsky’s glance at the eye insigne on Flandry’s breast indicated doubt about the metaphorical truth of it.

However, curiosity kept him friendly. When airlocks had decoupled and the groundcar was moving along the road to town, he explained: “We don’t fly unnecessarily. This atmosphere plays too many tricks … Uh, they’ll be glad to meet you at the Residency. Those officers I mentioned were too busy to be very good company, except for—” He broke off. “Um. And, since they left, the isolation and tension … My master and his staff have plenty to keep them occupied, but Donna Lagard always sees the same people, servants, guards, commercial personnel and their families. She’s Terran-reared. She’ll be happy for news and gossip.”

And you judge me the type to furnish them, Flandry knew. Excellent. His gaze drifted through the canopy, out over somber fields and tenebrous heaven. But who was that exception whom you are obviously under orders not to mention?

“Yes, I imagine things are a bit strained,” he said. “Though really, you need have no personal fears, need you? I mean, after all, if some of the tribes revolted, an infernal nuisance, ’speci’lly for trade, but surely Thursday Landing can hold out against primitives.”

“They aren’t exactly that,” was the answer. “They have industrial capabilities, and they do business directly with societies still further developed. We’ve good reason to believe a great many weapons are stashed around, tactical nukes among them. Oh, doubtless we could fend off an attack and stand siege. The garrison and defenses have been augmented. But trade would go completely to pieces—it wouldn’t take many rebels to interdict traffic—which’d hurt the economy of more planets than Diomedes … And then, if outsiders really have been the, uh, the—”

“Agents provocateurs,” Flandry supplied. “Or instigators, if y’ prefer. Either way; I don’t mind.”

Rostovsky scowled. “Well, what might their bosses do?”

Martin Lagard was a small prim man in a large prim office. When he spoke, in Anglic still tinged by his Atheian childhood, both his goatee and the tip of his nose waggled. His tunic was of rich material but unfashionable cut, and he had done nothing about partial baldness.

Blinking across his desk at Flandry, who lounged behind a cigarette, the Imperial resident said in a scratchy voice, “Well, Fm pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Whaling, but frankly puzzled as to what may be the nature of your assignment. No courier brought me any advance word.” He sounded hurt.

I’d better soothe him. Flandry had met his kind by the scores, career administrators, conscientious but rule-bound and inclined to self-importance. Innovators, or philosophers like Chunderban Desai, were rare in that service, distrusted by their fellows, destined either for greatness or for ruin. Lagard had advanced methodically, by the book, toward an eventual pension.

He was uncreative but not stupid, a vital cog of empire. How could a planetful of diverse nonhumans be closely governed by Terra, and why should it be? Lagard was here to assist Imperials in their businesses and their problems; to oversee continuous collection of information about this world and put it in proper form to feed the insatiable data banks at Home; to collect from the natives a modest tribute which paid for their share of the Pax; to give their leaders advice as occasion warranted, and not use his marines to see that they followed it unless he absolutely must; to speak on their behalf to those officials of the Crown with whom he dealt; to cope.

He had not done badly. It was not his fault that demons haunted the planet which were beyond his capability of exorcising, and might yet take possession of it.

“No, sir, they wouldn’t give notice. Seldom do. Abominably poor manners, but that’s policy for you, what?” Flandry nodded at his credentials, where they lay on the desk. “ ’Fraid I can’t be too explicit either. Let’s say I’m on a special tour of inspection.”

Lagard gave him a close look. Flandry could guess the resident’s thought: Was this drawling clothes horse really an Intelligence officer at work, or a pet relative put through a few motions to justify making an admiral of him? “I will cooperate as far as possible, Captain.”

“Thanks. Knew y’ would. See here, d’you mind if I bore you for a few ticks? Mean to say, I’d like to diagram the situation as I see it. You correct me where I’m wrong, fill in any gaps, that kind of thing, eh? You know how hard it is to get any proper overview of matters. And then, distances between stars, news stale before it arrives, n’est-ce pas?”

“Proceed,” Lagard said resignedly.

Flandry discarded his cigarette, crossed legs and bridged fingers. No grav generator softened the pull of Diomedes. He let his added weight flow into the chair’s crannies of softness, as if already wearied. (In actuality he did his calisthenics under two gees or more, because thus he shortened the dreary daily time he needed for keeping fit.) “Troublemakers afoot,” he said. “Distinct possibility of hostiles taking advantage of the disorganization left by the recent unpleasantness—whether those hostiles be Merseian, Ythrian, barbarian, Imperials who want to break away or even overthrow his Majesty—right? You got hints, various of those troublemakers were active here, fanning flames of discontent and all that sort of nonsense. How’d they get past your security?”

“Not my security, Captain,” Lagard corrected. “I’ve barely had this post five years. I found the sentinel system in wretched condition—expectable, after the Empire’s woes—and did my best to effect repairs. I also found our civil strife was doing much to heighten resentment, particularly in the Great Flock of Lannach. It disrupted offplanet commerce, you see. The migrant societies have become more dependent on that than the sedentary ones like Drak’ho which have industry to produce most of what they consume. But please realize, a new man on a strange world needs time to learn its ins and outs, and develop workable programs.”

“Oh, quite.” Flandry nodded. “At first you’d see no reason to screen visitors from space. Rather, you’d welcome ’em. They might help restore trade, what? Very natural. No discredit to you. At last, however, clues started trickling in. Not every transient was spending his stay in the outback so benignly. Right?

“You asked my Corps to investigate. That likewise takes time. We too can’t come cold onto a planet and hope for instant results, y’ know. Ah, according to my briefing, it was sector HQ you approached. Terra just got your regular reports.”

“Of course,” Lagard said. “Going through there would have meant a delay of months.”

“Right, right. No criticism intended, sir,” Flandry assured him. “Still, we do like to keep tabs at Home. That’s what I’m here for, to find out what was done, in more detail than the official report”—which was almighty sketchy—“could render. Or, you could say, my superiors want a feel of how the operation went.”

Lagard gave the least shrug.

“Well, then,” Flandry proceeded. “The report does say a Commander Bruno Maspes brought an Intelligence team, set up shop in Thursday Landing, and got busy interrogating, collating data, sending people out into the field—the usual intensive job. They worked how long?”

“About six months.”

“Did you see much of them?”

“No. They were always occupied, often all away from here at once, sometimes away from the whole system. Personnel of theirs came and went. Even those who were my guests—” Lagard stopped. “You’ll forgive me, Captain, but I’m under security myself. My entire household is. We’ve been forbidden to reveal certain items. This clearance of yours does not give you power to override that.”

Ah-ha. It tingled in Flandry’s veins. His muscles stayed relaxed. “Yes, yes. Perfectly proper. You and yours were bound to spot details—f’r instance, a xenosophont with odd talents—” Look at his face! Again, ah-ha.—“which ought not be babbled about. Never fret, I shan’t pry.

“In essence, the team discovered it wasn’t humans of Ythrian allegiance who were inciting to rebellion and giving technical advice about same. It was humans from Dennitza.”

“So I was told,” Lagard said.

“Ah … during this period, didn’t you entertain a Dennitzan scientist?”

“Yes. She and her companion soon left for the Sea of Achan, against my warnings. Later I was informed that they turned out to be subversives themselves.” Lagard sighed. “Pity. She was a delightful person, in her intense fashion.”

“Any idea what became of her?”

“She was captured. I assume she’s still detained.”

“Here?”

“Seems unlikely. Maspes and his team left weeks ago. Why leave her behind?”

What would I have done if they were around yet? Flandry wondered fleetingly. Played that hand in style, I trust. “They might have decided that was the easiest way to keep the affair under wraps for a bit,” he suggested.

“The Intelligence personnel now on Diomedes are simply those few who’ve been stationed among us for years. I think I’d know if they were hiding anything from me. You’re free to talk to them, Captain, but better not expect much.”

“Hm.” Flandry stroked his mustache. “I s’pose, then, Maspes felt he’d cleaned out the traitors?”

“He said he had a new, more urgent task elsewhere. Doubtless a majority of agents escaped his net, and native sympathizers may well keep any humans among them fed. But, he claimed, if we monitor space traffic carefully, they shouldn’t rouse more unrest than we can handle. I hope he was right.”

“You’re trying to defuse local conflicts, eh?”

“What else?” Lagard sounded impatient. “My staff and I, in consultation with loyal Diomedeans, are hard at work. A fair shake for the migrants is not impossible to achieve, if the damned extremists will let us alone. I’m afraid I’ll be a poor host, Captain. Day after tomorrow—Terran, that is—I’m off for Lannach, to lay certain proposals before the Commander of the Great Flock and his councillors. They feel a telescreen is too impersonal.”

Flandry smiled. “Don’t apologize, sir. I’ll be quite happy. And, I suspect, only on this planet a few days anyhow, before bouncing on to the next You and Maspes seem offhand to’ve put on a jolly good show.”

Gratified, visions of bonuses presumably dancing through his head, the resident beamed at him. “Thank you. I’ll introduce you around tomorrow, and you can question or look through the files as you wish, within the limits of security I mentioned. But first I’m sure you’d like to rest. A servant will show you to your room. We’ll have aperitifs in half an hour. My wife is eager to meet you.”