card, glanced at it-code only, no other identifying information, right, one of those — and tucked it away in his wallet.
“Although…” Raudsepp hesitated, looking around the admiral’s tidy but resource-crammed office-one whole wall was taken up with Desplains’s professional library, including a few rare volumes going back to the Time of Isolation. “It does occur to me, nearly everything to do with Ops passes through your comconsole, Captain Vorpatril, one way or another. Until this entire situation is clarified, it might be more prudent for you to take some personal leave. Unexceptionable enough, for a family emergency, certainly.”
Ivan’s jaw tightened. So, he noticed, did Desplains’s. “If my loyalty is suddenly that suspect,” he ground out, “that should certainly not be my decision to make, eh?”
Raudsepp’s brow wrinkled. “True enough.” He looked to Desplains.
Desplains looked back and said blandly, “My aide and I will discuss it. Thank you for your concern, Captain Raudsepp, and for your information and your time on this busy morning.”
It was a clear dismissal. Raudsepp must have run out of questions for now, or else he’d decided Ivan really had run out of answers, because he allowed himself to be shifted. The Ops clerk saw him out.
This left Ivan still standing. Studying him, Desplains rubbed his jaw and grimaced. “So, have you become a security risk, Vorpatril?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Ivan, as honestly as possible. “Nobody tells me anything.”
Desplains snorted. “Well, then, go back to work, at least for the moment.” He waved Ivan out, but then added, “Oh. And call your mother.”
Ivan paused on the threshold. “I suppose I should, at that.” Actually, he’d totally forgotten that little task, in the rush of events.
“I should perhaps say, call your mother back.” The voice could have dehumidified the room; Desplains was giving him That Look.
“Ah. Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Ivan retreated to the outer office.
He evicted the clerk from his desk, who was glad enough to get back to his own interrupted tasks, settled himself, and tapped in a familiar code. Lady Alys’s face formed over his vidplate all too promptly, which suggested she must have been lying in wait for this.
“Ah, Ivan. Finally,” she said, unconsciously echoing Desplains.
Dammit, he’d been busy. Ivan nodded warily. “Mamere. It’s been quite a night. I guess you’ve heard? Something?”
“Actually, our first word was a copy of Captain Morozov’s memo from Komarr, which he had strongly requested ImpSec Vorbarr Sultana forward to Simon. Happily, General Allegre can recognize need-to-know when he sees it. It came in while we were having breakfast. We had a first-hand update a bit later. Not from you, I must point out.”
From who, then? Ivan wanted to ask, then realized it would be a redundant question. And Byerly had probably also acquired breakfast and bed by now, of both of which Ivan was deprived, and looked to stay that way. “I kind of had my hands full,” Ivan excused himself. “Everyone’s settled now, though. Temporarily.”
“Good. How is Tej taking it? And Rish?”
“Overjoyed. Well, imagine how would you feel, to get your family back from the dead, all unexpected?”
“I don’t actually have to imagine it, Ivan,” she said, giving him a peculiar exasperated-fond look. “And nor do you, come to think.”
Ivan shrugged, embarrassed. “I suppose not. Anyway, there seemed to be a lot of family feeling.” Of several different kinds, in retrospect. An only child all his life, and his closest cousin the same, Ivan had occasionally wondered what it would be like to have a big family. Mamere’s attention would have been more divided, for one thing…
The panic simmering at the back of his brain seeped out. In a suddenly smaller voice, he said, “They, uh… seem to have come here with some idea of picking up Tej and Rish. And taking them away.”
Mamere looked back at him. “And how do you feel about that, Ivan?”
A rather long silence fell, before he managed, “Very strange.”
Lady Alys’s dark brows quirked. “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” She sat up more briskly. “In any case, clearly we must have them to dinner at the earliest possible opportunity. It’s the correct thing to do. And there is so much to catch up on.”
“Uh, they’re all asleep now. Jump-lagged.”
“Then they should be both refreshed and hungry by early this evening. Tonight, then. Very good. I’ll send Christos with the car-you will of course meet them at their hotel and help escort them.”
“Uh, better make that two cars. Or a bus. And isn’t this short notice for you?”
“I’ve put on receptions for hundreds at less notice. My staff is perfectly capable of handling a private family party of fifteen.”
Surreptitiously, Ivan counted on his fingers. “I make it fourteen, isn’t it? Even including Simon and me?”
“Byerly will no doubt wish to squire Rish.”
Thus saving steps for ImpSec, too. Mamere was well aware of every angle. Ivan managed not to choke. “Just…don’t invite Miles. Or let him invite himself.”
On any less-elegant face, that lip-pursing could have been called a retrospective grimace. “I promise you, I am capable of controlling my guest list. Anyway, I believe he’s still on Sergyar. Although I shall miss Ekaterin. Another time.” She waved a hand that was either airy, or threatening, Ivan wasn’t sure which.
Ivan ran beleaguered fingers through his hair. “Yeah, and I came in to the office this morning- late, because of last night-to find some ImpSec captain with a stick up his butt giving my boss a hard time over all this…It’s not helpful, I tell you.” He drew breath. “Galactic Affairs fellow. Who seemed not to be talking this morning to Domestic Affairs, if you know what I mean. It put me in a quandary. Are they all flying blind over there at Cockroach Central, or does Allegre want to keep his angles of view independent, or what? I hate getting sucked into these weasel- traps.”
Simon Illyan leaned into the vid pickup, and advised genially, “Call Guy Allegre and ask, Ivan. If it’s the first, he’ll want to know, and if it’s the second, you need to know. He’ll talk to you. Briefly, mind.” The amused face withdrew out of focal range. The reflective voice drifted back: “Though good for the G.A. man for tackling an admiral, stick or not. It’s the backbone one wants to see in an agent…”
Ivan shuddered. But I don’t want to talk to Allegre.
“Very sensible,” approved Lady Alys. “And I’ll call Tej and Rish. Carry on, dear. I’ll have Christos contact you later with the details for transport.”
She cut the com. Ivan sat a moment, gathering his reserves and wondering when, if ever, he was going to get back to Ops business this morning. And whether any of this could be classified as making personal calls on office time, and if he was somehow going to earn a reprimand for it. He sighed and punched in the next code.
“Ah, Ivan,” said General Allegre, neutrally, when he’d been gated through by the secretary. Guy Allegre passed as a stocky, middle-aged, normal-looking sort of senior officer, with a normal wife-well, she worked at the Imperial Science Institute-and children in about the same age-cohort as Desplains’s youngsters; it took a while knowing him to realize how ferociously bright, and brightly ferocious, he really was. “We may have a place opening up on our fast courier next week-is that request obsolete now, in view of this morning’s news? Last night’s news, I construe, from your point of view.”
“Uh, I think so, sir. It’s all very up-in-the-air right now. But this is related. I seem to find myself dealing with two of your people who aren’t dealing with each other-” Succinctly, as instructed, Ivan described the conundrum with Byerly and Captain Raudsepp.
“Hm, yes,” said Allegre. “I’ll have Raudsepp apprised.” That, and the general’s lack of irritation with Ivan taking up space on his comconsole, was rather a clue that Raudsepp must have been working in the dark re: Byerly. “Good you asked.”
Right. “Simon said I should.” Just in case Ivan needed a little more shielding.
Allegre nodded. “Vorrutyer does good work, on his level. It may actually have been a bit too much good work, lately. Domestic had been thinking of standing him down for a while, but then this came up.”
“How can someone do too much good work?”
“Well, irregulars.” Allegre gave a vague wave, and adroitly changed the subject: “How is Simon, these days?”
