The Collapsing Empire (The Interdependency #1)(91)

He said when I arrived at Hub to contact a customs official named Che Isolt who would tell me what to do from there. Isolt came onto the ship and gave me a transmitter box. Told me to leave it on the shuttle when I departed. I did. Then when I came to the hotel I turned on the monitor and found out what happened to the shuttle.

I know they’ll figure out how it happened. I know they’ll find me. I know no one will believe me. I’ve already lost so much and have been played for a fool. I thought I might have a chance for a new life on Hub. I was wrong.

Sorry for the mess.

“Motherfucking Nohamapetans,” Kiva said, and turned to Pitof. “Do you have your tablet?” Pitof held it up. “Call your boss.”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him I found something that gets me and my house off the goddamn hook.”

“He’s not going to be convinced by a suicide note,” Pitof said.

“It’s not just a suicide note,” Kiva said.

“It’s still going to take some time.”

Kiva nodded. “Yeah. When you’re done, let me use your tablet.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to call my captain and tell him to stop looking for Broshning. And then I’m going to call someone else.”

“Who?”

“Someone I’m pretty sure can speed up the process of getting my house off the hook a whole fucking lot.”





Chapter

18

The imperial guard pushed the door open and Marce Claremont walked into the ornate and cavernous room where the executive committee was having its first meeting of the morning. Marce sported a folder and eyes as large as plates as he took in the baroque design of the immense room and realized that no matter how long he stayed at the imperial palace he would probably never get used to its ridiculous sumptuousness. It was, in a word, excessive.

He reached the table where the executive committee sat, save the emperox, who was still recovering from her assassination attempt. The member at the head of the table, the one Grayland II told him would be Archbishop Korbijn, essayed him quietly. Marce bowed to her and briefly scanned the table for the other person he was looking for, Nadashe Nohamapetan. He’d never seen her before but he recognized her quickly enough—younger than any other member of the executive committee, and bearing a strong family resemblance to her brother Ghreni. She looked back at him, neutral, as she should have, because she had no idea who he was, or what he represented.

“You’re new,” Archbishop Korbijn said, to him.

Marce nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I am Marce Claremont, the emperox’s new assistant for science policy. I was hired just yesterday on my arrival from End.”

This got Nadashe’s attention, but she hid it well; if Marce hadn’t been directly looking for a reaction, he would have missed it.

Korbijn smiled and acknowledged the committee. “This might be a lot for your second day.”

“Yes, Your Grace. It’s a lot. More than you know.”

“I understand you have an update for us on the emperox’s condition,” Korbijn said.

“I do, and I have another piece of business that the emperox wished me to present to the committee, if you will indulge her wishes.”

“Of course.”

“The emperox’s condition is improving,” Marce said. “She’s still suffering from the effects of cold and hypoxia from being trapped in that leaking tenner spoke, but fortunately her guards—or what remained of them—were able to retrieve her before she suffered any genuinely life-threatening injuries. She was lucky. Luckier than the five guards who were lost protecting her, and the four guards who were lost trying to rescue Lord Amit Nohamapetan.” He turned and nodded to Nadashe. “My condolences, Lady Nadashe, for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course.” Marce turned back to Korbijn. “Dr. Drinin has told her that he wants to keep her on bed rest and observation for a few more days, to let her body heal further, and suggested to her that this executive committee be allowed to handle any issues that come up. I believe he was hinting to her that this committee should take on the parliamentary authorization of force against End and its rebels.”

“What did the emperox say to this?” Korbijn asked.

“She said that absent her presence, the committee may act in her stead to implement the authorization—”

“No time like the present,” said Upeksha Ranatunga, who in parliament had voted to send the troopship Prophecies of Rachela to End.

“—but only after I presented this committee with the second piece of information she wished to share with you.”

“And what is that?” Korbijn asked.

“This,” Marce said, and opened the folder he was carrying, which contained nine printed documents, each containing a substantial number of pages, stapled together. He began distributing the reports to the committee members.

“What is this?” Ranatunga asked.

“It’s an early draft of a scientific paper my father received several years ago, from a doctoral candidate named Hatide Roynold. She’d sent it to him because, although my father was the imperial auditor on End, he was there performing another task given to him by Emperox Attavio VI. My father was a Flow physicist, as I am, and the late emperox had him collecting data on the health of the Flow streams inside the Interdependency. Attavio VI was concerned, despite the best assurances of nearly all reputable Flow physicists, that these critical trade routes might collapse.”