Angelmass

CHAPTER 18

The report flowing across the display came to an end. Not, to Forsythe's mind, a particularly satisfying end. "And that," he said, looking up, "is six weeks worth of work?"

Pirbazari held out his hands. "I'm sorry, sir; I know it's not very impressive. But all this stuff has to go through as extra mining equipment, and there are only so many boring lasers and orbit-shift explosives you can order at once. Not without raising some eyebrows."

"I know." Forsythe hissed between clenched teeth. "The problem is that time isn't exactly on our side here."

"We're doing the best we can, sir."

"I know that, too," Forsythe assured him, managing an encouraging smile. He'd learned long ago that it was counterproductive to take out his frustrations on people who weren't responsible for creating them. "What about the Ardanalle tracking systems?"

"There we do have some good news," Pirbazari said, reaching over the desk to tap keys on Forsythe's board. "It turns out that almost fifty percent of Lorelei's mining ships are running with outmoded trackers. We've gotten an order through for a whole bunch of Arda 601's, and they'll be upgrading the mining ships as they bring in loads."

"Good," Forsythe nodded. "How much modification will it take to give them target acquisition capabilities?"

"None, really—that's why I specified 601's. Of course, the miners themselves will have to be taught how to use them." Pirbazari hesitated. "I'm sure you realize, though, that if the Komitadji gets in through the net blockade, this whole exercise becomes academic. We could arm every ship in Lorelei system—miners, transports, and liners—and together they still wouldn't have a chance against it."

"Would you rather we just sit back and do nothing?" Forsythe countered. "At least we might be able to slow them down a little when they come." He shook his head, feeling the frustration rising again.

"We need a weapon, Zar. Something new; something that could get through the defenses of a ship like that."

Pirbazari shrugged, looking strangely uncomfortable. "In theory, we've got one," he said. "All you have to do is find a way to get a catapult to make un-netted throws of less than half a light-day."

Forsythe smiled wryly. "Right. And if wishes were horses, we'd be up to our chins in fertilizer."

Pirbazari didn't smile back. "True. It is theoretically possible, though."

"A lot of things are theoretically possible," Forsythe murmured, drumming his fingers on the desk as he studied the other's face. "You want to tell me what's bothering you?"

Pirbazari's cheek twitched, a sign of discomfort Forsythe didn't see very often in the man. "Since you ask... I feel a little strange operating behind the High Senate's back this way."

"We've cut through governmental bureaucracy before," Forsythe reminded him, choosing his words carefully. It was obvious where the other was going with this, and those doubts had to be quashed right here and now. "Always with the best interests of the people in mind. And if I'm not mistaken, subsequent events have always vindicated our actions."

"I know that, sir," Pirbazari said. "But this time—" He waved a hand toward Forsythe.

Or rather, toward the pendant glittering around Forsythe's neck. "This time I'm wearing an angel,"

Forsythe finished for him. "And you're uncomfortable because I'm talking war and no one else in the High Senate is. That more or less cover it?"

"More or less, sir, yes."

"Fine," Forsythe nodded. "So let's examine it. First of all, is there anything financially unethical in what we're doing? Are we stealing or otherwise misappropriating Empyreal funds to arm Lorelei's miners?"

Pirbazari thought about it. "No, sir, not really," he said at last. "All this stuff is legitimate mining equipment, after all. None of it would go to waste even if the Pax dropped off the edge of the universe tomorrow."

"Right. Are we ourselves profiting financially from any of this?"

Pirbazari quirked a smile. "Hardly."

"Are we profiting politically, then?" Forsythe persisted. "Am I likely to make a great name for myself this way?"

"Well..." Pirbazari's eyebrows came together. "I suppose it's possible. The man who was prepared when no one else was and all that. But you're just as likely to look paranoid and even a little silly if nothing happens, so it's really not that good a gamble."

Forsythe spread his hands. "So in other words this doesn't gain me anything at all," he concluded.

"So where's the ethical problem?"

Pirbazari pursed his lips. "The ethical problem is that we're lying to the High Senate," he said bluntly. "A lie of omission, perhaps, but a lie just the same."

Forsythe gazed at him, a chill running up his back. Oh, no, he thought. Not Pirbazari too. "We're not lying to them, Zar," he said. Quietly, soothingly, as if talking to an upset child. "I've tried to tell them that the Empyrean's in danger. You know how I've tried to tell them that. But it's something none of them wants to hear. And you know as well as I do that if someone doesn't want to hear something you can't force them to listen to it."

"Don't patronize me, sir," Pirbazari said, an edge to his voice. "Just because I'm concerned about ethical matters doesn't imply I've lost the capacity for rational thought."

"Sorry," Forsythe apologized, mind racing. Somehow, he needed to deflect this line of questioning.

"For a minute there I slipped into Ronyon mode," he added. "The way he insists on thinking about the universe in straight black/white, good/bad terms."

The tactic worked. Pirbazari seemed to straighten up, a slightly defensive expression flicking across his face. "I didn't mean to imply I thought that, sir."

"Oh, I know you didn't," Forsythe assured him. "It was just the way you said it, I guess." He locked gazes with the other. "I know it looks a little odd, Zar, but you're just going to have to trust me on this. Trust that I really do have the best interests of the Empyreal people at heart."

"I know you do, sir," Pirbazari said.

"And," Forsythe added, tapping his chest, "I am, after all, the one wearing the angel."

Pirbazari's face relaxed. Just a little, but enough. "There's that," he conceded. "Well. Unless there's something else, I'd better get back to my desk. I have a call in to Ardanalle about some 501's they're trying to dump. Not quite as good as the 601's; but if we could get them aboard some of the ore transports it would give them remote spotter capability."

"Good idea," Forsythe nodded. "Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir." Pirbazari glanced at his watch. "Don't forget you have a committee meeting in half an hour."

"Yes, thanks, I remember," Forsythe smiled. "Talk to you later."

He held the smile until Pirbazari had closed the door behind him. Then he leaned back in his chair and said a word he'd had to teach himself never to say in public.

It was backfiring. All of it. The work, the planning, even the expense of having his office remodeled to careful specifications—all of it would be for nothing if his staff came under the influence of the damned angel. Even if he himself remained free, because a High Senator without an able staff was a sound mind trapped in a crippled body.

One of the many things he'd learned from his father.

All right, don't panic, he told himself firmly. If the problem was all the other angels around here, there wasn't much of anything he could do about it. But if it was his angel that was at fault...

He frowned up at the decorative chandelier hanging over and just in front of the formal guest chair.

Yes—that had to be it. The reason for having the chandelier put up in that particular place had been to keep the angel close to any visitors; but obviously it was also too close to the less formal deskcorner chairs that Pirbazari and the others used when they came in for private conversations.

Which meant that all he needed to do was find someplace else to stash the thing when his aides came to call.

Reaching down, he pulled open his lower left-hand desk drawer. It came easily; the flat safe he'd had installed there was heavy, but the motor assist more than compensated for the extra weight. He worked the combination lock and opened it, letting the lid swing smoothly up to lean back against the edge of the desk, then opened the carved wooden jewelry box sitting inside among the papers and cyls. Picking up his call stick, he went over to the door, making sure to give the chandelier a wide berth. He keyed the stick for code transmission and tapped four buttons.

The motors in the safe, installed by people who knew what they were doing, were totally silent. The motorized track system inside the false ceiling, installed by him, wasn't quite that good. But it was good enough. At the door, five meters away, he could just barely hear the hum, and only because he knew what to listen for. Mentally, he traced the track's movement: from the chandelier's hollow center up into the gap behind the decorative false ceiling, diagonally through the gap above the desk to the movable tile directly above the open safe...

The tile swung open, and in a glitter of gold and crystal the angel pendant appeared. It dropped leisurely toward the open safe on its telescoping memory plastic tendril, disappearing inside with a soft metallic chink. A second coded signal sent the tendril retracting back into its hiding place; a third closed the safe and the drawer.

Stuffing the call stick into a pocket, Forsythe went over to the guest chair and climbed up on it, balancing awkwardly with one foot on the seat cushion and the other on one of the arms. The ceiling tiles weren't fastened down but were simply resting on their framework; pushing one of them up, he stuck his head up and took a look.

One look was all he needed. The straight-line path between chandelier and desk had been the easiest for him to set up, but there was plenty of room up there for him to add a second track to the system.

That one would allow him to send the angel pendant all the way to the side of the room, well away from his aides when they were in the office.

But he'd have to do that later, after everyone else had gone home. Right now he had a meeting to go to, and one chore to take care of before he left. Ducking down, he dropped the tile back into place and got down off the chair, pulling it back to its normal position beneath the chandelier. With his call stick he signalled for Ronyon, then crossed the room to the main computer access system he'd had set up in the corner and punched up a section of the daily report.

He was sitting there, pretending to be engrossed in an analysis of commerce projections for northern Sadhai, when Ronyon arrived. You wanted me, Mr. Forsythe? the big man signed.

Yes, Ronyon, Forsythe signed back. I have a meeting to go to soon. Would you mind coming with me?

Ronyon's face lit up, as if he hadn't done this countless times in the past six weeks. Sure, Mr.

Forsythe, he signed eagerly. You want me to get the angel?

Yes, please.

He watched as Ronyon went over to the desk, a not quite comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was one thing to run rings around Pirbazari and his new-formed if still nebulous conscience. It was something else entirely to continue pulling this charade on Ronyon.

And the really troublesome part was that he didn't really know why it bothered him the way it did.

He took a deep breath. It doesn't matter, he told himself firmly. Ronyon's feelings, that child's trust and loyally of his—in the vast scheme of things all of that was expendable. All that ultimately mattered was Forsythe's duties to the people of Lorelei and the rest of the Empyrean. And if it took lying to Ronyon or anyone else to fulfill those duties, it was a small price to pay.

But the feelings refused to go away.

At the desk Ronyon had the drawer open and was twiddling the combination lock. Do you want me to carry it again? he asked, signing one-handed.

Forsythe waited until the safe was open and Ronyon was looking at him before replying. I think that would be best, he signed. It's still the best way to assure that a thief who tried to steal it wouldn't get hold of the real thing.

Okay, Ronyon signed cheerfully, carefully scooping the angel pendant out of its box. For a moment he held it cupped in his hand, clearly delighted by the play of light off the crystal. Then, as carefully as he handled everything else of Forsythe's, he put it into his side coat pocket. Okay, he signed. Are we going to go now?

As eager to please as ever, Forsythe thought with a twinge. Totally unquestioning as to why his boss would want to continue this strange behavior.

Yes, Ronyon, Forsythe signed, getting to his feet. All of it, he reminded himself, was expendable.

Ronyon closed the lid of the safe and slid the drawer closed. All safe and sound, Mr. Forsythe, he signed cheerfully. What should I do now?

Forsythe glanced at his watch. Cheerful at seven o'clock at night, and that after sitting in on nearly five hours of meetings and discussions whose content he probably wouldn't have understood even if he'd been able to hear it. The man was unbelievable. You might as well go on home, he told the other. I just have a few things to do here, then I'll be leaving too.

Ronyon's face fell a bit. His eyes flicked around the room, as they often did when he was thinking hard. Can I call to the dining room for them to bring you some dinner?

Bone-weary, Forsythe still had to smile. So eager to please... Thanks, but no, he signed. A thought struck him—But I'd appreciate it if you'd get me some tea from the samovar before you go.

Ronyon's face lit up again. Sure, Mr. Forsythe, he signed, and all but dashed from the office.

Forsythe shook his head in wonderment and turned back to the computer access display. It was rather like having a bipedal trained dog, he thought as he keyed for his private angel-data file. A

trained dog who could bring coffee and make cookies—

The thought froze halfway. On the screen, with red stars all along its edge, was the abstract of a newly-filed paper...

An extensive theoretical and statistical analysis of the Angelmass emissions indicates that the rate of angel production has increased over the past five years. A significant portion of this increase cannot be explained by the general changes in Hawking radiation brought about by the gradual mass-evaporation of the black hole itself...

Forsythe skipped to the bottom of the abstract. Jereko Kosta, the tag identified the writer. Visiting researcher, Angelmass Studies Institute, Seraph.

Unobtrusively, a steaming cup of tea and a small pot appeared at his elbow. Thank you, he signed, looking up at Ronyon. Go on home now. I'll see you in the morning.

Ronyon ducked his head in an abbreviated bow. Okay, Mr. Forsythe. Good-bye.

He left. Taking a sip of tea, Forsythe turned back to the display and called up Kosta's article. He'd replenished the cup twice from the pot, and once from the outer office samovar, by the time he finished.

He leaned back in his chair, sipping at the cold dregs, and stared at the screen. "Damn," he said quietly.

It was about as bad as a mathematically top-heavy paper could possibly be. Because if angel emission wasn't explainable by current theory, there were only two possibilities. Either the current theory was lacking, or else the angels were not a totally natural emission of a black hole.

Forsythe hissed softly between his teeth. Few of the other High Senators, he knew, would even read the paper, let alone understand its implications.

But some would. He knew which ones... and he knew what their first thought would be. If angels weren't simply a natural product of a quantum black hole, there must be some other mechanism involved. A mechanism that might not require a nearby black hole to operate.

A mechanism that might possibly be laboratory reproducible.

Setting his cup down, Forsythe keyed for a bio on the paper's author. It was remarkably short, saying only that Kosta had joined the Institute six weeks earlier after graduating from Clarkston University in Cairngorm, Balmoral. With no mention of honors or other publications, it was probable that he was just some newly graduated kid who'd happened to luck onto something no one else had noticed yet.

But if he was, in fact, truly smart enough to isolate the angel-producing mechanism...

Forsythe keyed back to the last page of the paper. Kosta's current funding was coming from a foundation on Lorelei, one whose name Forsythe couldn't recall ever having heard before. Clearly a small foundation, though; attached to the paper was a cross-indexed request from Kosta for Empyreal government funds to continue his work.

For a long minute he thought about it. Then, hunching forward, he keyed for his orders file.

Fifteen minutes later, it was done. Kosta's paper had been shifted from the daily report listing to an obscure science file where chances were good that no one in the High Senate would ever notice it.

The request for Empyreal funding had been located, brought forward in the considerations file, and denied. And the next skeeter to Seraph would include an official order to the Angelmass Studies Institute that Kosta's current credit line be indefinitely suspended.

For just a moment he hesitated over the latter, finger poised over the "send" key. If his imagined worst-case scenario was wrong—if this Kosta really wasn't smart enough to be a genuine threat—then cutting him loose like this was going to be pretty hard on the kid.

But if he was...

Steeling himself, Forsythe jabbed the button. He couldn't risk it. If Kosta's work led to a way to create artificial angels, it would create a flood that the Empyrean would be buried under. And if it cost Kosta his career... well, Kosta was expendable, too.

Unless...

Forsythe grinned tightly to himself and called up a different file. With luck, he might be able to have it both ways.

MEMO TO PIRBAZARI: GET ME A BACKGROUND CHECK ON JEREKO

KOSTA, CURRENTLY AT THE ANGELMASS STUDIES INSTITUTE.

EMPHASIS ON SCHOLASTIC AND SCIENTIFIC ABILITY; STRONG

EMPHASIS ON PROBLEM-SOLVING CAPABILITIES. REPORT ASAP.

With a satisfied grunt he cleared the screen and stood up, wincing at the complaints from his muscles and joints, but with the latest twinge from his conscience gone. If Kosta was merely onetime lucky, he'd have his credit line back in a week or two, no worse for the experience and with a nice horror story of bureaucratic stupidity to pass around at late-night chat sessions.

And if he was indeed a genius, with no funding he'd have to go back to being a genius on Balmoral or somewhere else equally harmless. Under the circumstances, it was as fair a deal as Kosta was likely to get. Fairer than some would have given him.

Fairer, perhaps, than Forsythe himself would have given him six weeks ago.

He looked at his watch. It was late, and he was tired, but there was still one more thing he had to do before he could go home. It shouldn't take more than another hour to rig up a second track path above his ceiling.

And anyway, being tired was part of a High Senator's job. Another of the many things he'd learned from his father.