"A registered alien?"
"Well . . . no. He had been working in the factory for about three years—"
"Illegally," Heris murmured; heads turned to look at her and she smiled. "I would consider that a Benignity citizen in disguise, not registered as an alien, and working in a critical industry for three years, was almost certainly an agent."
"Everyone thought he was Finnvardian," the captain muttered.
"Apparently," Heris said.
"But he was murdered," the captain said.
"By Finnvardians who discovered that he wasn't. Who thought, perhaps, he was leading them astray."
"George Mahoney had a gun in his hand—"
"And did that man die of gunshot wounds?"
"Well . . . no. He was stabbed. But there's no evidence that the other individuals under arrest could not have stabbed him."
"And I might have sung grand opera while hanging upside down in zero G," Heris said, to no one in particular. "But I didn't, despite the lack of evidence exonerating me."
"What about the ones who ran away from the clinic," Cecelia said. "Doesn't that convince you they're guilty?"
"Of pretending to be hotel employees, yes. But that's hardly a major crime."
"And the field generator?" Marta brought that up; Heris had been about to ask.
"Hasn't failed yet. Won't fail. Can't fail. It's—" The lights dimmed, flared again, and went out. In the darkness, Heris heard curses and cries, and between them the utter silence that meant no ventilation fans were turning, no compressors working, nothing electrical functioning at all. After too long a wait, dim orange emergency lights came on, and the reflective arrows painted on the floor to indicate the way out glowed against the dimness.
"Possible," Heris said.
"It's not—it's something else—" But the captain was clearly shaken. Sirens began to hoot outside. The company manager stammered apologies, shook himself loose from Venezia, and bolted for the door.
"Let's go," Heris said to Cecelia.
"I'm not leaving without Ronnie," Cecelia said. "No matter what."
"Sir, we've got to evacuate the lower levels—" That was someone from the back; Heris couldn't see the face.
"Very well," the captain said. "Go on now—we'll be bringing them all outside, just be patient." But Cecelia and Marta and Venezia—and Heris—stood their ground until the prisoners came up, until they were sure that Raffa and Ronnie and George were safely above ground.
Outside, in the hot afternoon, the streets were full of sullen frightened people, more and more of them pouring out the entrances to all the buildings. Heris noticed a lot of pale, light-eyed Finnvardians. The police, after a despairing look at the aunts, gave up any pretense of guarding their young prisoners, and began moderately effective crowd-control efforts. At least they kept people moving away from the shore, away from the police station and hotel. Ronnie and George leaned against the wall, and Raffa leaned against Ronnie; the aunts pursed their lips but said nothing.
"Are all the factories underground?" Heris asked Venezia.
"I suppose," Venezia said. "I know some of them are. I never really—that is, my brothers were in charge, you see, after Papa died. They never wanted to talk to me about business. And of course if you
do
have underground facilities, Finnvardians are an efficient work force."
"I hope that nice little man in the suit didn't get hurt," Cecelia said.
"I hope that nice little man in the suit wasn't a mad bomber," muttered Heris. The rosebud and spats had done nothing to reassure her. The main field hadn't blown, or they'd all be dead, but something had gone very wrong. A misplaced charge could cause sudden loss of power, then field fluctuation and restabilization in another configuration. She could easily imagine Michaelson in the role of inept saboteur or not-quite-rescuer.
Suddenly the floor trembled. Heris eyed the nearby wall. "Out in the street," she said. "Now!" They all scuttled into the middle of the street, as the shaking worsened and bits of plaster fell off the walls. Luckily, Heris thought, these were all one-story buildings. Then a bouncing lurch sent them all to their knees, and the trembling died away, a fading rumble in the distance.
"Field's back on," Heris said as she clambered up, dusting herself off.
"Why did it shake?" asked Cecelia, pale but determined to be calm.
"Reconfiguration," Heris said. "My guess would be that the saboteur miscalculated the placement of the charge. With power, the field's inertia would damp the fluctuations—that's why the lights went out; the field bled power off the supply net—but it didn't find enough power to regain its former geometry. So it collapsed toward a sphere. What that means to the structures, we won't know until we look."
"Is it—safe now?" asked Marta.
"If someone doesn't tweak it again. We're lucky. If it had blown completely, we wouldn't be here to worry about it."
"I don't want to be here at all," Raffa said shakily.
"We'll go home soon," Marta said.
"No. I don't want to go home. I want to go with Ronnie."
Marta's brows went up, but whatever she might have said was interrupted by a blast from loudspeakers as electrical power returned.
"—Disperse! Go to your quarters! Danger is over; the Tiegman field has been restored. Shift Two, report to your supervisors in Level One. All Shift Two, report—"
"Let's see about the hotel," Cecelia said. "If it's not full of water, maybe we can get something cool to drink."
No one interfered as they made their way back to the hotel entrance. Heris noticed that the local manager trailed along behind, the now-disheveled bouquet still in hand. Venezia ignored him. The doorman, shaken but willing, opened the door. Inside, the lights were on, and the waterfall still plunged over the lip of the central well. The hotel manager scurried to meet them. "Ladies—gentlemen—I'm sorry but our facilities are not back to full operation yet—"
"I want to sit down," Cecelia said firmly. "On something soft. In a cool, shady place. With something to drink—and I really don't care what, as long as it's cool and wet."
"The same," Marta said.
The hovering manager tried again to present his bouquet to Venezia, and she turned on him. "I will be in your office in one hour," she said. "And I will then expect a complete disclosure of your role in this fiasco."
Heris wondered which fiasco Venezia meant. From the look on the manager's face, he might have had more than one to conceal. Venezia finished her first tall glass, called for another, and then spoke to them all.
"You don't have to come with me—I expect it will be a long, tedious afternoon—"
"I wouldn't miss it," Marta said. "If you'll allow a rival into your files, that is—"
"Where I'm thinking of, that's no problem. Cecelia, will you join us, or would you rather babysit the youngsters?" Heris blinked. She still had trouble connecting the dumpy little woman she had first seen with this regal personage who seemed to know exactly what she was doing.
"Let Heris go," Cecelia said. "She can represent the government, if necessary. And it'll be good experience for her."
Great. Something Cecelia didn't want to do, and thought Heris would learn from. Tedious, Venezia had said. Files. Heris groaned inwardly; she could see it now. She was going to spend a hot, miserable afternoon cooped up in an office going through boring files that she knew nothing about.
In the event, Heris found the afternoon far from tedious. When they arrived at the corporate offices, Venezia brushed past the little receiving line the manager had put together, and stormed through the reception area so fast that Heris got only a glimpse of elegant charcoal-gray carpet and oyster-gray leather upholstery, a serene vision marred only by the unfortunate puce pottery statuette displayed on a stand.
The serenity of the front office vanished behind the first glass partition, where
kicked anthill
better fit the level and pattern of activity. Actual filing cabinets stuffed with papers, which scurrying minions shifted from drawer to drawer, with frantic looks when they recognized intruders. Other workers hunched over deskcomps, fingers flickering as they did something . . . Heris could not tell what, at the speed with which Venezia led them along. Where was she going? How did she know where to go? Behind her, the manager bleated occasional cautions, apologies, pleas, but Venezia ignored him. Marta followed Venezia, and Heris followed Marta, and the manager crowded Heris but lacked the force to push past her.
Along a hall, up a flight of stairs, along another hall. Clearly, this was executive territory, still carpeted, with offices opening off the passage and a larger one at the end. That would be the manager's office, Heris was sure; as they neared it, she could read the engraved nameplate.
The manager's office, when they arrived, had been cleared for Venezia, fresh flowers in a hot turquoise and green pot in the middle of the desk. Venezia snorted, and went straight to his assistant's office next door. There, piled in a heap on a side table, was everything that must have been on the manager's desk, including a family portrait. Here Venezia paused, and here the hapless manager caught up.
"Please, madam . . . my office is the best we have; it will suit you, I'm sure." He waved toward the door.
"Later," Venezia said. She prowled the room, eyeing the side table of files, cubes, loose papers. The manager's assistant broke out in a fine sheen, as if someone had sprayed him with oil. His gaze flickered back and forth between her and the screen of his deskcomp. He reached out a trembling hand.
"No!" Venezia said. She had not seemed to be watching the assistant, but her command stopped his hand in midair. "No—get up now, and go out."
"Out—?"
Venezia glared at him; he ducked his head and hunched aside, almost stumbling out of his chair. She moved into his chair herself.
"I'm going to assume that the enabling codes specified in the Morreline Codex are still active," Venezia said, without looking at the manager. Heris, watching him, saw a flush rise up his face, followed by pallor.
"Uh . . . yes, madam, but there are . . . other . . ."
"Give them to me." Heris had heard admirals in battle with less command presence. Stuttering, protesting, the manager finally gave Venezia the codes.
"But it will all be so confusing, madam," he said. "And I have prepared a precis—"
"Good," Venezia said. "If I become confused, I can look at it." She glanced at Marta. "You're the biochemist—what do you want to look at?"
"You're going to give me open access to your technical files?"
"I don't have time to worry about it," Venezia said. "It's an emergency; you're the only independent expert—tell you what, I'll hire you, put you on retainer, and then you'll have to give me a loyalty bond. What's your consultant rate?"
"You always were smarter than you looked," Marta said, and named a figure that Heris compared to a large fraction of her own yearly salary. "Contract accepted. I'll need comp access."
Venezia looked at the manager, who had faded to a depressing shade of gray. "In here, madam," he said softly, and Marta followed him into his own office.
Venezia glanced at Heris. "How are you with personnel files, Captain Serrano?"
Heris wondered what she meant. How was she with personnel files doing what? Her face must have been as blank as her mind, because Venezia sighed heavily. "Export/import ratios?" That made more sense, but Venezia shook her head. "No. Just be ready to keep the interruptions away, if you would." Heris felt silly, demoted from partner to door watch. She said nothing, looking around the room instead. An ordinary office room, large and cluttered. More actual paper than she'd seen in years, including bulky metal files to keep it in. Cube files as well, cube readers, wall display units, schedules with colored lines all over them.
Venezia, when she looked back at her, was hunched over the deskcomp, murmuring something Heris couldn't follow. Heris could just see the flicker of rapidly changing screens, lines of text and blocks of numbers scrolling past much faster than she would have cared to read. Did this old woman really know what she was doing? Cecelia was sharp enough—at least about horses, and her own investments—but Venezia had not yet impressed Heris with her intelligence. She had seemed far more scatterbrained than Cecelia or Marta; she had kept muttering about pottery. What
was
she reading so fast?
"Aha," Venezia said in the midst of this musing. "He's sharpened the blade for his own throat this time!"
"What?" asked Heris.
Venezia glanced up at her. "It's a mistake to assume that people with artistic hobbies can't think," she said. Heris blinked; this was exactly the sort of statement she would have expected from Venezia eight hours before. "Or won't notice," Venezia went on, stabbing at the controls. She had bright patches of color on her cheeks, and Heris realized she was in a considerable rage.