With greatest appreciation to Commodore Van Cassius Albert, RSF
From Erik Gustofsen, Premier, Scandyan Confederation
Van studied the box, then carefully unlatched the catch and lifted the top. Inside was a medal, one he did not recognize.
“It’s the Star of Dedication. That’s the highest award they can give to a non-Scandyan. The box is a personal token from the premier, and RSF officers, I am assured, can accept personal tokens that carry no overt commercial value.”
While the wooden box carried no overt commercial value, Van had already seen that all the colors and shapes of the two seals had been cut and set in gemstones and gold, and the stones and artistry made the box far more than a mere token. “It’s beautiful.”
The ambassador extended an envelope, sealed with green wax and a gold ribbon. “This comes with it.”
Van had to fumble with his belt kit to get out his knife, and he carefully opened the envelope without breaking the seal. Then he read the words inside, handwritten.
This is a mere token of thanks from me and from my family. We cannot express how much your selfless action has meant, both to us and to the people of Scandya. We hope that both the Star and the box will remind you in good times and bad that there are those of us who can appreciate honor and selflessness, especially when purchased so dearly.
Beneath was a simple signature—Erik Gustofsen.
Ambassador George slipped another large and flat envelope on the table. “That has the official proclamation from the Scandyan Assembly.”
“I can’t say that I anticipated any of this.” Van had really expected that the promises he had read about more than two months earlier would have been conveniently forgotten by everyone.
“You made a great impression, Commodore. A great impression.”
Van replaced the “token” box inside its container. He would read the proclamation later. He glanced toward the window. Outside, the snow had begun to fall more heavily.
“How did you know what was going to happen?” asked George. “I read the RSF inquiry, the one they submitted to the ministry. But it never said anything about how you knew.”
Neither had the summary report that Van had read, and no one had talked to him—at least not that he recalled, although he had no idea whether he might have been interrogated under sedation, but there was no mention of that in the summary.
“I didn’t know,” Van replied, “except for three things. A number of the servers at the Keltyr embassy looked like they were former military. The Kelt military attaché had told me that they had all been screened thoroughly, and then I saw servers on the lawn where there were very few people, but in places where they had a clear field of fire. The only real target had to be the premier. He was the only one that wasn’t replaceable.” Van shrugged.
“Why did the screening tip you off?”
“Because the Kelt commander was a professional, and the only way that they could have passed screening was through duplication, and that meant clones.”
“You mean…whoever did it had duplicate clones of each assassin, one programmed to pass screening, and one…”
Van nodded. “It’s the only way it would work. Programmable clones are blank slates. That means they take their programming hard. You can’t deprogram without destroying them.” Even as he spoke, he wished he’d kept that conclusion to himself and decided against revealing anything else—not that there was much at that point.
“Who…”
Van shrugged. “That, I couldn’t even guess. You can create a motive for just about anyone. I’d be skeptical that it was the Revenants because I’d think they’d use another genetic pattern. But then, they could have figured that everyone would think that. I just don’t know.”
Ambassador George smiled. “That’s something—to figure that out as it was happening.”
“I was lucky. Or maybe I wasn’t.”
“I doubt it was luck.” The ambassador rose. “I’d like to talk longer, but I hope we’ll see you at dinner or lunch one of these days before you go.”
Van rose, careful to gather the box and envelope.
Outside, Commander Maine was waiting, holding Van’s duffel. Van made no move to take it as he reclaimed his coat.
“If you’d link to the netsystem, Commodore?”
Van did, and picked up the general access codes for the embassy, but not those that required special clearances. He could also sense that his codes were trace-linked. He couldn’t do much about that, either. He locked them into his memory. “I’ve got them.”
“Good. We’ll head to your quarters.”
Once they were back in the main corridor, Maine added, “We did move all your records and personal effects to your personal quarters. I hope that we got everything, but…well…we don’t have that much office space…”
“I understand. No one knew when I’d be back, and you had to get on with the tasks at hand.” Van didn’t worry about funds. Once his personal account reached a certain level, the excess was transferred automatically to an account on Sulyn—code-named VCA. Dad Cicero also had access to that account. Van had done that to allow his father to continue his prudent and effective investing on Van’s behalf, something an officer moving from system to system certainly couldn’t do.
Neither officer spoke much on the walk to Van’s quarters. Nor did they say much there.
Van didn’t feel like talking, and it was clear that Maine was ready to return to his duties.
After the commander left, Van surveyed his quarters. He could tell that neat as everything looked, his rooms had been searched, and probably more than once. That was certainly to be expected under the circumstances.
He glanced to the window, but the snow continued to fall. After taking a deep breath, he settled into the armchair in the sitting room. He’d need to step up his conditioning. That he could tell. Other than that, and his orders to report
