Fearful Symmetry (The Robert Fenaday and Shasti Rainhell Chronicle Book 2) Read online

  *****

  Jalgren Pard looked up from his massive desk at the knock. He was working on contract negotiations for the sale of a former Dua-Denlenn merchant cruiser and had left word not to be disturbed. He didn’t need to ask who it was. His personal aide would admit no one to his presence without checking with Pard first. The doors slid open and Grigor Salmot, his head bowed apologetically, came in. The whipcord thin, dark-skinned man made no sound as he walked over the marble flooring and plush, red carpet. Stealth was second nature to Grigor.

  “My Lord, there has been a development that Section Chief Vaughn believes you should be informed of,” Salmot said.

  “Yes?” responded Pard. Vaughn was an enemy of Antebei, Pard’s current protégé and potential successor. The rivalry between the two young Fourth Generation Engineereds was intense and encouraged by Pard, who enjoyed it as other men might enjoy a horserace. His decision to put such young men in charge of Special Operations and Internal Security was controversial in Denshi. All the better, the assignments maneuvered rivals out of powerful positions. The two young men were loyal only to Pard and dependent on him for their survival against the earlier generations of Engineered. There was another reason. Denshi was devoted to the concept of genetic perfection. Vaughn and Antebei were the pinnacle of Engineering, especially Antebei. Leadership was thrust on them the way it had been on the young scions of royal families in the Middle Ages.

  “You may recall, from Mr. Antebei’s morning report of yesterday, about the infiltrators in Sector Five. Evidently, according to Mr. Vaughn, they were not Unionists or Neo-Reformists, but probably Confederate Special Forces. Unfortunately, the ambush set by Mr. Antebei’s forces did not succeed. They did not catch them all in the apartment. Three outside detected the ambush. A rather spectacular firefight ensued, triggered when those inside spotted a sharpshooter, who then shot one of them. Either intentionally or accidentally, they set off a large explosion, which brought down a good part of the building, causing many civilian casualties. The others fought their way out of the ambush during the explosion, escaping in a police car. One may be wounded.”

  Pard sighed, pushing back from his desk. It seemed the world was filled with amateurs these days. “A stunningly poor performance, wouldn’t you say, Grigor?”

  “Not what one would hope or expect,” Salmot replied diplomatically.

  “I imagine there are no documents, or other proof, that these were Confederate troops?”

  “No Sir,” Salmot said. “These were standard humans, attempting to pass as lower order genetic trash.”

  “Do not be so contemptuous of standard humans,” Pard warned. “It is Antebei’s chief weakness. He underestimates them, hence this failure.”

  “Yes, Excellency, I shall remember. There were some Olympians with them. That’s what Mr. Vaughn wanted you to see. There is a surveillance datum in your inbasket.”

  Pard turned to a computer screen, activating it. The surveillance video image was barely adequate. It showed three people turning into a storefront. Then the image sharpened.

  She had grown her hair long, in defiance of his preference. Clearly, she had filled out in figure and muscle mass, as he had envisioned.

  Nothing appeared on Pard’s heavy, immobile face, though his belly muscles tensed, as if in remembrance of pain, as he stared at the image of Shasti Rainhell.

  “Mr. Vaughn thought it important you know,” Salmot said, eyes carefully on the floor.

  “Of course,” Pard said mildly.

  Salmot shuddered slightly; the kindly, gentle voice was a warning. Pard used it when he was at his most furious, a measure of his self-control. Actions of the most unpleasant sort often followed.

  “They fled across the river into either Neo-Reformist or neutral Quest territory. We could call in any outstanding favors, possibly even with the Neos.”

  “No,” Pard interrupted. “The female is not so important we should go to such expense. It might also give our enemies, particularly in the Army, the thought she could be useful to them. The greatest danger is our appearing worried about this in Parliament or among the Council. Others would seek to pry into our affairs, looking for advantage. Now is a very bad time for such inquiries and attention.

  “No, this has been too public as it is. Rainhell is famous on other worlds. If she dies in the public eye, we may face action by offworld governments. Have the police back off. Assign Vaughn the task of finishing this. Tell him to use his best people, but to keep this quiet, even in Denshi. If at all possible, I want Rainhell alive.

  “Have all sections dealing with Project Overman double security and minimize activity. It is unfortunate this occurred at this time. We must be careful.”

  “Finally,” Pard said, turning back to his desk, “send Antebei to me. At once.”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Salmot replied, not envying Antebei that meeting at all.

  *****

  Shasti could scarcely believe their luck so far. They escaped the area of the police attack by cutting across several of the informal borders of Marathon to an area controlled by a party unfriendly to Pard’s Denshi/ Military alliance. They were now in territory loyal to the Neo-Reformist party. Definitions meant nothing. What mattered was that the Neos hated Denshi. Cooperation in anything Denshi wanted, including searching for them, would be minimal and grudging. Their best protection lay in the incessant, internecine political rivalry of the hotpot that was Marathon. Thin armor, but all they had for now.

  After nightfall, Shasti ditched the patrol car in the Ithacan River near an industrial complex. Most of the workers had gone home hours ago. There was little traffic in the commercial area after dark.

  Jenner tended Rigg with the supplies from the police car’s medkit. The vehicle proved a lifesaver in more than one respect. In addition to the medkit, Shasti found a riot gun and some off-duty clothes from the male officer, which more or less fit Rigg. They ditched Rigg’s blood-soaked clothes. Shasti broke the riot gun down and stashed parts of it on them.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  He nodded grimly. They headed for a bus station. Mercifully, the hoverbus came soon, and they boarded it, heading for the poorer section of town. Jenner and Rainhell sat on either side of Rigg, keeping him upright. They changed vehicles several times under Jenner’s guidance. When no one was around to see, Shasti used her extra-human strength to carry the big ASAT. She had always respected Rigg; that regard increased dramatically as they struggled toward their goal. Standard humans were fragile, even large ones like Rigg. All he had going for him was nature’s haphazard design. Shasti’s body, exceptional even on Olympia, would already be well on its way to repairing the damage done by the bullet. Her endocrine system would have locally anesthetized it and pumped in anti-inflammatories. She’d be feeling an endorphin high.

  Near midnight they reached the area of the safe house. Rigg’s endurance finally gave out. They hid him in a darkened alley, propped up with a pistol in one hand. Shasti flicked to her night-black mode and accompanied Jenner the rest of the distance. With Jenner watching from a safe vantage, Shasti scaled the side of the building. Her fingers found purchase where a standard human’s would not. She entered the fourth story apartment from the roof after crawling over much of the building like a spider.

  *****

  Leda Jenner looked around the alley, hoping for Shasti’s quick return. It took all of her self-control not to imagine Denshi assassins looking at her from every shadow. Minutes dragged on. “Hurry, Shasti,” she whispered to herself.

  The door to the old apartment building swung open. Leda snapped her pistol up, then relaxed as Shasti, her skin now restored to its normal ivory white, exited the front door. The big woman made her way over to Jenner’s position, almost disappearing from sight despite Leda’s efforts to track her. God, she’s part shadow herself, Leda thought.

  “Get into the apartment,” Shasti ordered.

  Jenner, relieved to get off the street and behind walls, sped up the
street and into the building. A neighbor passed her on the way, but paid no attention to her. Jenner could have sworn the pounding of her heart was audible to anyone in the area. She raced up the back stairs and entered the apartment but didn’t turn on the light. The living room windows faced the street Rainhell and Rigg would have to come up. She could cover them from here with her pistol.

  After a few anxious moments Shasti appeared, her arms intertwined with Rigg’s, looking for all the world like lovers on a stroll. They disappeared from view as they reached the building. Jenner hurried to the doorway, holding it open a fraction. The elevator opened. They were there, Rigg’s head resting on Shasti’s shoulder. Shasti had what she probably thought was a pleasant smile frozen on her face for anyone who might glance at them. The effect was perfectly horrible and mercifully short. Shasti, with no apparent effort, scooped up Rigg and darted inside. Jenner sealed the door behind them.

  Shasti carried Rigg into one of the two bedrooms, gently laying the unconscious man on the bed. She quickly checked the wound, breaking open the medkit. Jenner stood in the doorway, ignored, shaking. Now that they had reached some temporary safety, Jenner’s nerves gave out. She leaned against the wall, slid down and started crying softly. For years, she’d opposed the Olympian government. Tiny, inconsequential defiances, even after the Confederacy recruited her. Now, it was all too real. A dozen had people died in front of her today. The other members of their team were either dead or already in interrogation, with all its horrors. She didn’t have time to know the others well, but they were people, not numbers, to her. From the floor, through a haze of tears, she looked out the window. A few stars shone already, dotting the delicate arch of the ice crystal ring overhead. Around some of those stars were families now lacking sons, a daughter, perhaps a wife. It was horrible.

  Shasti finished checking Rigg. Her cold green eyes swept over the older woman. “Stop that,” she ordered in a frozen, lifeless voice, brooking no argument, backed by eyes that seemed to feel nothing.

  Suddenly afraid of Shasti, Jenner choked off her crying. It occurred to her, if she wasn’t able to pull her weight, Shasti might deal with the problem in a final manner. Jenner stood, eyeing the bigger woman warily.

  “Be useful,” Shasti said. “Is there food here?”

  “There should be,” Jenner replied.

  “Hot soups, teas, would be good,” Shasti said, standing. “He is deeply asleep, but I judge, in no danger of dying. The bullet went through. If a lung or vital organ were hit, he would already be dead. I shot him full of trank and antibiotics. When he wakes, he should be hungry. After that, pack some food. I doubt any of the team survived to be interrogated, but we cannot be certain. Denshi does not know about this location or they’d be here. Still, we may have to run. I’ll watch the street from here. You go make something.”

  Jenner nodded and scurried for the kitchen.

  Shasti Rainhell moved to the window, began assembling the riot gun and wondered how much longer they would live.

  Chapter Four

  Robert Fenaday slammed open the door to the Shamrock Line’s general counsel’s office. Secretaries and clerks scattered as he marched in.

  Oswin Dewey looked up from his desk in surprise as his CEO bore down on him. He started to stand. “Mr. Fenaday, what a surp—”

  “Silence,” Fenaday said. “Sit.”

  Dewey looked as if he might protest for a second but thought better of it.

  “I’ve just found out,” Fenaday began, “that Ursane Duna has been trying to see me for months. Concentrate on that last name, Duna. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dewey replied, “of course. Your friend who was killed on the Enshar expedition.”

  Fenaday leaned forward, his hands on Dewey’s desk. “He wasn’t killed, Mr. Dewey. He gave his life to save his world, his people and, as an incidental, my unworthy ass. He died alone, in a hole, with a monster that would have broken your sanity to behold. Because he chose to.”

  “Most admirable,” Dewey said, “of course—”

  “And you did not see fit,” Fenaday said, his voice strained, “to let me know that his only surviving relative needed to talk to me? Needed my help?”

  “Well, sir, it was not a social call. He came seeking relief from the contract his uncle negotiated with you to give the Shamrock line exclusive rights to Enshar. I explained to him that a contract is a contract. There seemed no need to bother you with it.”

  Fenaday’s right hand made a convulsive gesture at his right thigh. Then he stood up, his face cold and remote. “Mr. Dewey, it’s as well for you that I’m no longer a privateer and do not carry a pistol.

  “The Enshari are trying to rebuild a world and a race from the brink of extinction and you talk to me of contracts. Ursane would never default on Belwin Duna’s sacred word. He only wanted some help, some latitude from the stricter provisions of the contract. I found this out an hour ago, by chance, when I ran into him at the park.

  “And,” Fenaday suddenly roared, “you turned my friend’s family from my door like beggars!” Fenaday grabbed one end of the desk and threw it over. Dewey, wide-eyed, scrambled from his chair to a corner. Dewey's assistant, Lury, ran into the room and froze when Fenaday rounded on him.

  Fenaday, chest heaving and red-faced, turned back to Dewey. “Belwin Duna was the finest being I ever met. I’m not even fit to walk in his shadow, yet his people worship me as a hero. I’m not a hero. Duna was the hero.

  “Yes, Mr. Dewey, it is a good thing I’m a civilized businessman these days and not a privateer or I’d wring your miserable neck. You’re fired. Get out of this building while you still can.”

  Dewey opened his mouth and Fenaday took a step toward him. The solicitor broke and ran for the door.

  “Lury,” Fenaday growled.

  “Ye-ye-yes, sir?” said the younger man.

  “You’re now general counsel to the Shamrock line. You will immediately drop every and anything else you are doing and meet directly with Ursane Duna. You will arrange that all his requests be granted. You will insure that he can reach me at any time of the day or night. You will have all this done by day’s end or you’ll be joining Mr. Dewey on the street. Is there anything unclear in these orders?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why am I still looking at you?”

  Lury ran out.

  Fenaday looked out of the office at the staffers. People stood around, staring at him.

  “Back to work, people,” he said, “today’s performance is ended.”

  People moved back to their desks, watching him carefully.

  Well, he thought, I guess I have that coming. Probably looked and sounded like a maniac. But God, to think of Ursane being treated like an insurance salesman. It’s enough to drive a man half-mad.

  To the Enshari, Fenaday rated second only to Belwin Duna himself. For Fenaday, all too aware it was Mandela’s blackmail and not Duna’s quest that landed him on Enshar, it left a bitter feeling of inadequacy. He’d been forced to go to Enshar and would have fled if the opportunity presented itself. Fenaday always felt like a fraud when near Duna’s people, avoiding them when he decently could.

  His mission accomplished, he headed back to his own office in the corporate tower. Fury ebbed, to be replaced by his usual grim mood. He hadn’t heard from Shasti in over a month, since she’d taken a ‘job’ on Earth. Temporary, she said in the holo-message but she’d be unreachable during the job. With luck, she would see him in six months. The message was Shasti at her most impenetrable, beautiful, statue-like, unknowable. It hurt very badly when it came. Shasti had never lied to him before, so he had no choice but to believe her. He wondered if she wasn’t lying to herself about coming back. Perhaps Shasti no longer wished to compete with a ghost.

  For his part, he was unsure if he should wish her back. Maybe he’d made a mistake buying back his old home on New Eire. Everywhere he looked in it, he saw his lost wife, Lisa. Grief, which relented briefly
after Enshar, reasserted itself, in part, after he moved back in. Missing in action, three words that left a gap so difficult to close. Every time he thought the wound healed, something opened it.

  Shasti took and gave different things than did Lisa. In some ways much less, in some, maybe more. They were friends and, since Enshar, lovers in the physical sense. He knew he was closer to Shasti than any living person, but there were silences, gaps across which they had not reached. More puzzling was the sense that Shasti simply did not know the gaps were there.

  An insistent buzzing intruded on his brooding. Fenaday reached wearily for the intercom. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Fenaday, there is a Mr. Mandela here to see you. He does not have an appointment.”

  Fenaday sat bolt upright, stilling the curse on his lips. The spymaster, here?

  “Send him in. I don’t want to be interrupted during this.”

  Mandela walked into the office, looking much the same as when Fenaday first saw him almost two years ago. Fenaday glared at him narrow-eyed, leaning back in his chair. He did not offer to shake hands. Mandela helped himself to a chair, not discomfited.

  “We have a problem, Fenaday,” he said.

  “What problem could we possibly have in common?” Fenaday asked coldly.

  “I think you once described her as six foot nine with eyes like green ice.”

  Fenaday snapped out of the chair, “What’s happened to Shasti?”

  “Got your attention now?” asked the spymaster. “Sit down.”

  In a moment of cold self-knowledge, Fenaday realized Mandela had played him like a trout. He swore then and there never to let the spymaster see the inner workings of his mind again. Fenaday sat back, trying not to shake. It’s always like this, he thought, someone always comes to tell me they’re gone. I’m never where I need to be.

  “What happened?” he asked when he could trust himself to speak.

  “We don’t know,” Mandela said. “Rainhell took a job with us. I offered her a crack at something she wanted very badly, Jalgren Pard.”