Wolf Among the Stars-ARC Page 3

  “Yes, Dad, you are.” Andrew had never felt more inadequate in his life.

  His father seemed to sigh. “Yes, of course. Is your mother . . . ?”

  “She’s fine. She just doesn’t quite feel ready yet for . . . this.”

  “I understand.” Another sigh, then a businesslike look. “You’ve got me at sort of a disadvantage. I don’t know whether we saw each other after the uploading, while I was still alive.”

  “No, we didn’t. I was away a lot.”

  “Yes, I know.” Was there a faint hint of resentment at the infrequency of a busy son’s visits?

  “And recently, I haven’t been able to get away from the Academy at all. In fact . . . well, I missed your memorial service. I hated that, but I couldn’t help it. You see, something has happened—and I need your help.” Andrew launched into his story. He was not interrupted—not even software this sophisticated would do that. It was the first false note, for his father would have had no scruples about breaking in with questions.

  “And so that’s where we stand,” he concluded. “The connection with Admiral Valdes is the only thing we have to go on. And Mom said you knew him, back before the war.”

  “I truly wish I could help you, Andy. But it’s barely accurate to say I knew him. I had a couple of conversations with him, that was all. He was a captain then, and a fair-haired boy of Arnstein’s. It was in 2064, two years before the war—which, incidentally, he seemed to know was going to happen.”

  “Well, the rivalry between us and Gev-Rogov in Lupus and Sagittarius had been a potential problem for years, although relations seemed to be improving. And then came the destabilization of Kogurche after the assassination of the system’s ruler in 2057, which the Rogovon tried to blame on us—and, for a fact, it worked to our advantage in terms of human penetration of the system. So I suppose it was a fairly safe bet at that time that war was coming.”

  “Yes. But he talked about it as though it were an accomplished fact. Odd. He also talked very matter-of-factly about what he intended to do after it was over. In fact, I got the impression that he regarded his whole CNE Navy career as preparation for the political career that was to follow. A distinguished war record would help no end, you see. In the same way, he intended to go through the Strategic College simply because it’s become almost a rite of passage for the power elite, what with all the connections you made there.”

  “What, exactly, did the two of you talk about in those couple of conversations, Dad? It sounds like he was very forthright with you.”

  “Well, at first he was fulsomely flattering of me—”

  “Thus proving that he didn’t know you very well.”

  The upload flashed an appreciative grin that was entirely in character—eerily so, in fact. “Yeah, well, after going on at length about my alleged prestige—”

  (Not just alleged, Andrew thought—but didn’t say, for he knew any accurate copy of his father’s mind would react to that with a snort as derisive as the original’s.)

  “—he finally got down to business. He wanted me to lend my name to his political agenda. He hinted at various advantages to me—as if I hadn’t been too old to care. And he played on my reasons for regarding Gov-Rogov as an implacable enemy. But when he set forth his program for doing something about it . . . well, it was as though he just didn’t understand why we had overthrown the old Earth First Party. They had wanted a totalitarian hermit kingdom, while he wanted a totalitarian empire—and I doubt if anybody ever got rich on the difference!” The sentient software reined itself in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away. Anyway, I told him as politely as possible that I wasn’t interested, even though he indicated that he could count on the support of Nathan Arnstein, a man who I respected more than all but a very few I’ve ever known.”

  Andrew seized on that last point. “Yes, so did I. And now, as I’ve told you, he’s dead by his own hand. I’m trying to find out what drove him to that—now more than ever, since what you’ve told me makes me even more certain that it’s somehow tied into Valdes’s ambitions, in addition to being connected to the Black Wolf Society. Can’t you tell me anything else that might help me? Maybe just something else from that same period of time, with any kind of connection with Arnstein or Valdes or the Black Wolf Society?”

  The virtual brow of Ben Roark furrowed as the software scanned data. “There’s just one possibility, but I doubt if it will help you. As you know, I’d kept up some informal contacts within the Intelligence community. I won’t go into the details, but around the same time—just before the war, in other words—I became aware through those contacts of a Lokaron agent named Reislon’Sygnath, working for Gev-Harath . . . and specifically for Hov-Korth.”

  Andrew nodded his understanding. The largely still family owned Lokaron merchant houses had turned most military functions over to the gevah “national” governments. Indeed, it was one of those governments’ primary reasons for existence. But the hovahon kept the Intelligence function for themselves—they had too many secrets. And Hov-Korth, the preeminent hovah of them all, had the most secrets and maintained the most extensive espionage network in the known galaxy. It shared most of its findings with the Gev-Harath military, of course. The exceptions implicit in that most constituted one of the inherent weaknesses in the Lokaron militaries that Nathan Arnstein had spotted early in his career. Andrew shied away from that thought, with its freight of attendant grief.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “Just by the fact that CNE Intelligence had uncovered the identity of a Hov-Korth agent.”

  “It isn’t really so surprising. You see . . . Well, this is supposed to be a graveyard secret. But I don’t guess that’s a stopper in my case . . .” The image let the thought trail off, with an ironic lift of eyebrow.

  My God! thought Andrew. The software actually has a sense of humor! But of course it does—my father’s sense of humor.

  “Anyway,” Ben Roark’s digital ghost went on briskly, “what I’m not supposed to be telling you is that Reislon wasn’t just working for Hov-Korth. He was also working for us.”

  In the midst of his shock, Andrew found room to wonder why he was even surprised. Earth’s history held no shortage of spies who had sold themselves to more than one side. And in this case, it didn’t even involve overt disloyalty: Gev-Harath had been officially neutral in Earth’s war with Gev-Rogov, while barely troubling to conceal its sympathy for its human protégés.

  But in all those examples from Earth’s history, everyone concerned had been human. It wasn’t quite the same.

  “Was this Reislon’Sygnath acting with his bosses’ knowledge?” Andrew asked. “I mean, considering how his ultimate boss Svyatog’Korth felt about Gev-Rogov. . . .”

  “Shrewd guess, but to my knowledge the answer is no. I doubt if Svyatog was prepared to be that un-neutral. Reislon was playing his own game—or, rather, games. We could never figure out all the dimensions of what he was up to. I doubt if anybody could have.” The expression on the virtual face of Ben Roark reflected the respect of a good spook for a great one.

  “Did you ever actually talk to him?”

  “Oh, no. His contacts with us were, as you might imagine, extremely discreet, indirect, multilayered, and what have you. And I wasn’t even officially in the game by then. No, everything I know is from conversations with people who were actually involved—or people who had talked to them. So you see, all I have to offer is hearsay. That’s why I was hesitant to offer it at all. But there was one common theme that emerged pretty clearly from all of it: Reislon took the Black Wolf Society seriously—and he was worried about it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The clincher came that very year, 2064. Without going into the details, our people got part of the text of a report by Reislon to Svyatog. Only a fragment, mind you. But he was passing on a warning for the future, and the context made it clear he was talking about the Black Wolf Society.”

  “And two years after that,
the war broke out,” Andrew said thoughtfully.

  “And shortly after it broke out, Reislon vanished.”

  “Vanished? You mean he stopped working for us?”

  “I mean he dropped from sight altogether. As far as we were able to determine, Hov-Korth also lost sight of him.” A wry smile. “After the Battle of Upsilon Lupus, while the peace talks were going on and you were still out-system with Arnstein’s fleet, Svyatog happened to be on Earth, and he dropped in on us. It was all I could do not to ask him if he knew anything about what had happened to Reislon. But of course we couldn’t let him know that Reislon had been playing a double game—assuming he didn‘t already know it. So I kept my mouth shut. Being less than frank with Svyatog didn’t sit too well with me; as you know, he is more than a friend to me and your mother. But . . . well, nobody ever said the spook game is a nice one.”

  “Svyatog is on Earth now,” Andrew mused.

  The copy of his father’s mind produced a sharp look. “Remember, the same considerations still apply. Officially, we never even knew Reislon existed. You can’t spill the beans to Svyatog by asking about him.”

  “Does it really matter anymore? I mean, the war ended seven years ago, and Gev-Harath—especially Hov-Korth—have always been our friends.”

  “You know better than that! The security classification of this information hadn’t been lifted at the time I was uploaded, and I doubt if it’s been lifted now. I don’t know what the possible consequences of blowing it now would be, and you don’t know, either. When we start letting individuals decide for themselves when security restrictions no longer make sense or need to be obeyed, people’s lives get put in jeopardy!”

  And how, exactly, are you going to stop me . . . Dad? But of course Andrew didn’t say that. For one thing, he had to admit to himself that the upload had been quoting Intelligence gospel. “Well, I can ask him in general terms if he can shed any light on the Black Wolf Society, can’t I? Maybe he’ll be willing to share information derived from Reislon without revealing its source.”

  “Maybe—but just be careful.” The expression on the ravaged face abruptly softened. “I’m a pompous old hypocrite, you know. I’ve already violated security by telling you all this. Even if you were cleared for it—which you’re not, even as Admiral Arnstein’s chief of staff—you don’t have a need to know. At least not what officialdom would define as one. But—”

  “But you were never one to give a damn about what officialdom thought, were you? If you had been, the history of the last four and a half decades would have been very different. And don’t accuse me of flattering you. At this stage of the game, what would be the point?”

  The image actually goggled at him. “By God! You really are an SOB, aren’t you? I guess I must have done something right!” And the image grinned.

  Andrew grinned back. But then he sobered as he remembered something that had been bothering him. “Uh, I suppose I ought to . . . sign off now. But what is the effect ? I mean, how will you . . . ?”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ll just go to sleep. Actually, not even that. You see, I don’t dream. Probably just as well.”

  ***

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The “Enclave”—the extraterritorial compound in Northern Virginia that the Lokaron had demanded as one element of the treaties they had dictated to the American government in 2020—had been largely destroyed in the course of the events of 2030, after which it would have been irrelevant anyway. Nowadays, the governments of the gevahon maintained normal diplomatic relations with the CNE, while the hovahon operated principal and branch offices in accordance with the laws of Earth’s various nations, as permitted under the new treaties.

  Hov-Korth’s headquarters, however, was practically a mini-Enclave in itself, without the extraterritoriality. Located in Rockland County, New York, as close to Manhattan as availability of real estate permitted, it was built in the vaguely Arabian Nights-reminiscent Lokaron architectural style, clustering around a central tower whose slender, soaring elongation was possible only to the nanotech-produced materials the aliens had introduced to Earth.

  Andrew Roark arrived by ground car in the midst of a winter storm that had grounded all air-cars. An elevator powered by a very minimal application of the reactionless propulsion that drove Lokaron spacecraft took him swiftly up a transparent shaft through which he watched a landscape whose bleakness matched his mood. That landscape receded farther and farther below as he rose to the highest levels, to the suite of offices that had been put at the disposal of the Executive Director while he was on Earth. A live functionary—always a status symbol among the Lokaron—met him as he emerged from the elevator. Trained to read the signs, he recognized a primary male, subjugated along with the females in traditional transmitter-dominated Lokaron societies, although that was changing in modern times, as was reflected by the fact that this one wore the standard “business suit“ of loose sleeveless robe over double-breasted tunic.

  “Greetings, Captain Roark. The executive director is expecting you. Follow me, please.” He led the way along hallways of softly luminous jadelike materials for which English held no names, through gently tingling curtains of hovering security nanobots into the innermost office.

  “Ah, Captain Roark!” greeted Svyatog from behind an extensive desk whose capabilities were completely unobtrusive. “Or may I call you Andrew?”

  “Of course, sir.” They had no difficulty understanding each other. Andrew’s skull held a translator implant like Svyatog’s, not generally available on Earth but standard issue for CNEN officers whose ranks and duties involved Lokaron contacts. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “It is no trouble. I was glad to be able to oblige your mother when she called and indicated that you wished to see me . . . on private business.” The amber alien eyes glanced significantly at the visitor’s civilian clothes.

  “That’s correct, sir. I’m not here in my capacity as a Confederated Nations officer. In fact, I’m currently on indefinite leave.” Actually, he had no business being here at all. He had informed the IID he was going to New York to settle some paperwork involving his father’s estate—and had in fact gone there by verifiable public transport, and then rented the ground car. He could only hope that he wasn’t under actual surveillance, in which case he would have some explaining to do.

  “I will of course assist you in any way I can,” said Svyatog graciously. He touched a control on his desk. “Please take a seat.”

  Andrew looked behind him, at the previously empty space where an invisible, impalpable cloud of lighter-than-air nanobots had silently coalesced into a chair. He sternly told himself that it wasn’t magic, although as cutting-edge Lokaron technology it might as well have been. He sat down gingerly, not fully believing in the chair’s solidity until he felt it. It adjusted its contours to him, which didn’t exactly aid his efforts to compose his thoughts. Neither did the fact that he was addressing one of the wealthiest beings in the known galaxy.

  “I’ve come to you, sir, to ask for any information you can give me—within the bounds of propriety, of course—on certain matters. The circumstances are rather delicate, so I’ll have to ask that our conversation remain confidential. I’ll also ask that you not inquire about my motives.”

  Svyatog’s mouth stretched slightly while remaining closed. Andrew recognized a Lokaron smile. “Would this, by any chance, be related to Admiral Arnstein’s death?”

  Andrew stared, openmouthed. “I don’t suppose I should even be surprised,” he finally managed. “Given the intelligence resources at your command.”

  “You flatter me. I gather you have not had an opportunity to view this morning’s news.”

  “No, I haven’t. You mean they’ve gone public with it?”

  Instead of answering, Svyatog manipulated other concealed controls, and a holographically projected display appeared in midair over the desk.

  “Yesterday,” a well-known news announcer inton
ed, “the Confederated Nations lost one of its heroes. Naval authorities have announced the sudden and untimely death of Admiral Nathan Arnstein. The cause of death is still under investigation. Admiral Arnstein will be best remembered for stopping Gev-Rogov’s aggression in its tracks in 2067 with his great victory at—”

  Andrew had stopped listening. Yesterday? Cause of death under investigation? The thoughts echoed through his incredulous mind.

  Svyatog, with half a century of experience at reading human faces, gave Andrew an expressionless regard as he turned off the recording. “Actually, your initial assumption about Hov-Korth’s intelligence apparatus was not entirely unfounded. We have reason to believe that Admiral Arnstein in fact died several days ago, and that your government has been sitting on it, as I believe the expression goes. Of course, I will not ask you to compromise yourself by giving me confirmation of that.”

  “Besides, you don’t really need my confirmation, do you?” Andrew reached a hasty but unequivocal decision. “Nevertheless, I’ll tell you that your sources are correct as far as they go. In return, I’ll ask you if you have any information on the Black Wolf Society, dating from the period just before the war.”

  For a few heartbeats the slit-pupiled eyes that humans found to be the most disturbing Lokaron feature regarded Andrew in silence. When Svyatog finally spoke, the translator implant conveyed his expressionlessness. “Why do you suppose we would have information on what is essentially an internal human matter?”

  “You have information on most things. And if the stories about the Black Wolf are true, it isn’t just a crime syndicate of no interest to anyone except human law enforcement agencies. With its strident human expansionism, its influence could have a destabilizing effect that would be bound to impact the interests of Hov-Korth.”

  Had Svyatog been human, Andrew would have sworn he was affecting an air of casual interest. “Have you had the opportunity to access your late father’s upload?”