Command Decision (35 page)

“No, that’s it. Thanks, Aunt Grace.” Stella cut the connection and looked at her attorney.

“Most impressive. I’ll certainly be able to attest to the efficacy of the device. So if you’ll let me have a terminal, I’ll get busy. We should be able to file for patents today, as organized as your data are.” In his eagerness, he spoke almost as directly as a non-Cascadian.

“Good.” Stella led him back to the main offices, installed him at a terminal in her own, and left him to it. A few hours later, he called her in and presented a sheaf of hardcopy for her to sign.

“And what name did you want those patents in? Vatta Transport?”

“No. Toby did the work; he should get the credit.”

He shook his head. “He didn’t do all the work; you said he started with the pirated design. I’d recommend Vatta Transport for the rest, with Toby—if you insist; he’s still a minor in law, and you as his guardian could be named instead—listed only for those things he actually designed himself.”

Stella agreed. Even if he held only those patents, he would be secure for life, assuming the pirates didn’t blow them all away.

By the close of business, the patent applications were filed: “Patents Relating to the Design of a Working Prototype of a Small Ansible-Based Communications Device Mountable on a Ship and Interfacing with Existing System-Ansible-Based Communications Networks.” The Moscoe Confederation, as one of the five systems in which patents were registered for recognition under the Uniform Commercial Code, had a reputation for speedy processing, but Stella was surprised at how fast that could be. Shortly before mid-first-shift the next day, her assistant told her she had an incoming call from planetside.

“Stella Vatta?” The man on the screen wore a Patents Office shield clipped to his lapel.

“Yes,” Stella said.

“We have examined your…remarkable patent application. I see you took the advice of Brinkles, Patrick, and Stansted as intellectual property attorneys…”

“Yes,” Stella said. “Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all. They have an excellent reputation; I’m sure that if they say a search for prior patents was made, they did in fact make it. And I see that your attorney attests that he personally observed the…er…device in operation and is satisfied that it does in fact work as claimed. I did have a few questions for you. Were you planning to manufacture the device in this jurisdiction?”

“Yes,” Stella said.

“And were you planning to manufacture and sell the device without ISC knowledge?”

“Without their knowledge? Not at all. We had asked them, when we couldn’t find any record of patents they might have held…so they know what we’re doing.”

“I see. And were you planning to manufacture and sell the device under the name of Vatta Transport?”

“No; I planned to designate a separate entity for that.”

“Very well. I am pleased to tell you that we were all impressed by the…device, and its likely scope for manufacture and sale. We would expect a reaction from ISC, of course, but the device could benefit many, which…is another reason to approve the application. I will forward the relevant numbers and papers at once, and proceed with registration. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Stella said. She could hardly catch her breath. It had worked. It had worked, and so fast. It wasn’t, she reminded herself, anything but a start—but it was a strong start.

She found Toby glowering at a monitor. “Aunt Stella, I only made eighty-seven on my history exam. And I think I was right.”

“On what?”

“First Expansion was from Old Earth to its system satellites, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“And Second Expansion was from Old Solar to Central Sector only?”

Stella shrugged. “I don’t know, Toby. I don’t remember. And anyway, we have something to celebrate.”

“If I don’t get a higher grade in history, Zori Louarri will beat me out for class honors,” Toby said.

Stella paused. Toby had been topping his class easily until now, and he’d shown no interest in class honors. She’d urged him to find friends, go places with other kids—which he sometimes did—but mostly he stayed in the lab, working.

“Who’s Zori Louarri?” she asked.

“She’s…just a girl,” Toby said, going pink.

Even geniuses had hormones. And he was still a teenager. Stella sighed to herself; being Toby’s guardian might turn out to be more of a challenge than she’d thought.

“Why don’t we go out to lunch, and you can tell me more about her?” she said.

“There’s not much to tell,” Toby said, sliding off the stool. “She was top of the class before I got here; everybody likes her except the doormops—”

“Doormops?”

“You know. Kids that don’t like anybody but each other.”

“What does she look like?” Stella asked, leading the way out of the offices, and tapping her wrist to indicate lunchtime to the receptionist.

Toby turned pinker. “She’s…kind of…well, she’s a girl, you know. She has soft hair. And…and things…”

He was sunk. He was completely sunk. Stella remembered, all too well, her own first crush. It had been the boy’s jawline, just that angular, bony shape, which made her knees weak. And Toby was old enough for it to be more than a simple crush.

Phrase by broken phrase, on the way to the restaurant where she’d made reservations, Toby told her more than enough to make Stella both sympathetic and amused. Zori was smart, she had a laugh that made everybody laugh, the “soft hair” was thick and black and shiny, she had eyes as black as her hair, she played on the wally team—wally, Toby explained when Stella asked, was a ball game where you bounced two balls off the walls of a small room and scored by a complicated system that made no sense to Stella, even after explanation.

“And her family’s been here since forever, and they don’t like newcomers that much, but Zori’s nice to them anyway—”

“I’ll have the mock duck à l’orange,” Stella said to the woman in the black smock. “Toby?”

“Oh. Anything—” He looked at the menu finally. “Can I have that lamb thing, Aunt Stella?”

“Of course, dear. I said this was a celebration.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“I’ll tell you later. Rack of lamb,” she said to the waitress. “And we’ll want dessert later,” she added, grinning at Toby.

When the waitress had gone, she leaned closer to him. “We have the patents,” she said.

His face lit up. “All of them? Already?”

“Yes. And the ones you invented are in your name; the rest are in Vatta Enterprises.”

“Is it going to make us rich?”

“Toby, we
are
rich. Compared with most people, anyway. But yes, it will make us a lot richer. If I don’t do something stupid.”

“You won’t do anything stupid, Aunt Stella,” Toby said. “You’re much smarter than you think.”

“I’m glad you think so, Toby,” Stella said, her mind racing ahead to all the things she had to do to get the ansibles into production, through sales, before the profits she hoped for would roll in.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Nexus II,
ISC Headquarters

Rafe glanced at the windows of his office. A lowering gray sky, the warm, almost brownish, tone that meant more snow was on the way. Winter in Nexus City…not a favorite time of year at all. But he had vanquished Parmina and many of his stooges; he had the board’s acquiescence, if not their approval, for the licensing negotiations with Vatta Enterprises.

“Emil?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Check with Enforcement and make sure they’ve sent that message rescinding threats to…whatever that place is where…Space Defense Force is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get their chief up here. We need to have a serious talk.” Rafe looked at the sealed message from Termanian and turned it over and over. He could anticipate what it said, and reading it would only reinforce his own bias about the man. He didn’t need biases; he needed clear thinking. Had the man said anything, done anything, that had value he should recognize? He looked at the window again and saw the first flakes drifting past.

“Sir? They said they sent the message, but they couldn’t stop the ships…”

Rafe stared at his assistant. “Ships? What ships?”

“Uh…they said…it’s standard procedure. They sent ships to see if they could catch the wrongdoers—didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Rafe said. “I did not know that. No one mentioned it. What ships? How many?”

“I don’t know…should I ask?”

Rafe looked at him; Emil paled and disappeared from the doorway…to ask, Rafe hoped. Not that he’d wait. He made his own call to Enforcement.

“This is the CEO. Let me speak to your chief, now.”

“I—he’s on his way up to your office, sir.”

“Then let me speak to whoever’s left in charge.”

“That would be…Assistant Director Malaky…but he’s busy.”

“Now,” Rafe said.

“Er…yes, sir. Just a moment.”

“Yes, sir, Chairman.” Malaky’s tone, bored and annoyed, set Rafe’s teeth on edge.

“I understand your division dispatched ships to system ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112,” Rafe said. “Yet I gave the order to stop any further action against those people hours ago.”

“Well, yes, you did, but the ships were already en route—”

“In FTL flight? That was fast.”

“Well, no, they weren’t in FTL yet, but they were far enough out we didn’t think a message would reach them until they jumped—”

“So you didn’t even try?”

“Well, it would’ve been a waste of time, wouldn’t it? If they weren’t going to get the message before jump anyway? And we’re always being told to save expenses…”

Rafe clenched his teeth; the words that wanted to come out would not help the situation. He took a breath. “How many ships?”

“We had information from our agents in Adelaide that this so-called Space Defense Force had three warships of patrol and cruiser size and three fast courier ships, so we basically threw the whole sector force at them. We don’t want to lose any of our—”

“How many?”

“Uh…fourteen, sir. That should take care of them and not cost us anything.”

Rafe took another careful breath. “The point is, Malaky, that we don’t want to ‘take care of them’—that’s why I had you send that message rescinding the warning.”

“That’s not what it said.”

“
What’s
not what it said?”

“Well…you just said to tell them to disregard the previous messages. You said not to institute action against them. That’s not the same as rescinding the warning or telling us to quit what we were already doing. They’re still illegals, aren’t they? They still meddled with our equipment, didn’t they? And they can’t be allowed to get away with it. I figure you’d have sent the force along later, but sooner’s better if you want to catch them with their pants down.”

“Malaky, you will shortly realize that your reasoning is completely and utterly wrong,” Rafe said. He was aware that his voice had changed; he knew that if Malaky had stood in front of him, he’d have been hard-put to keep from strangling the idiot. “Tell me now exactly where those ships are, where they were, and what their ETA to that system is. And I’ll need their beacon IDs.”

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about,” Malaky said. “They’re the standard sector force; they left sector HQ when we first notified them, boosted hard to the jump point, and exited…seventy-nine minutes ago, local time. They’re in jumpspace now; they’ll arrive in two point three standard days.”

“Sir?” That was Emil at the door. “Chief of Enforcement Denny Cuthen is here, sir.”

“Ping my assistant with the beacon IDs,” Rafe said to Malaky. “Now.” He switched off, his mind racing. Fourteen ships, to Ky’s three? Even old, outmoded ships with less trained crews…at fourteen to three, and hers without a full load of munitions…he had to do
something
. And killing the chief of enforcement wouldn’t be the right something.

“Show him in,” Rafe said, settling himself squarely behind the vast desk.

“I’m glad you finally have time to see me.” Enforcement’s director was a head taller than Rafe, his head shaved bald, his implants bulging on both sides. The access flaps had complex tattoos on them. “You’ve been upsetting my people, nosing around, and you didn’t even see me in person first—”

Rafe looked at him; the man glowered back. He probably thought he looked tough, Rafe thought, but Gary or any of his commandos could have taken him down in seconds. Telltale softness below the ears, the jaw, where muscle had gone to flab.

“You have made a mistake,” Rafe said, in his mildest voice.

“No, it’s you that made mistakes, sonny,” Cuthen said, leaning forward to put his hands on the desk. “You think just because your father ran this company and wanted you to sub for him for a while, that you’re the man he is. Well let me tell you something—” He stopped abruptly, his face paling.

Rafe smiled at him, the nose of the weapon he much preferred to a needler—noisy as it was—pointing steadily at the man’s face. “You need to sit down and be quiet,” Rafe said, in the same calm tone. His hand didn’t move. He really did like the feel…it was one of the things that had impressed him about Ky; she, too, carried a Rossi-Smith with bloodbeast-tusk grip. He needed not to think about her right now; he needed to think about this…person…whose face now gleamed with sweat.

“You wouldn’t—” Cuthen said, almost a whisper and definitely pleading.

“Waste a round on you?” Rafe said. “That depends. Sit down. Now.” He let his voice carry more bite on the last word, and the man sat as if that word had cut his hamstrings. Rafe rested his elbows on the desk and brought his other hand up to brace the first. “You must realize, Denny, that I’ve killed quite a few men—using the term loosely—and it doesn’t bother me. So in your position, you might wish to be careful to answer what I ask without any unnecessary delay or insults.”

Emil poked his head in the door. “Sir, there’s some data up from—” His eyes widened.

Without taking his gaze from Denny Cuthen, Rafe said, “Later, Emil. And close the door.” He felt a chuckle trying to emerge and stifled it. This was more fun than he’d expected, but he couldn’t afford fun. Not with fourteen ships aimed at Ky.

“You’re…crazy…,” Cuthen breathed.

“Now, you see, that’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t say to someone who’s holding a gun on you,” Rafe said. He took his left hand away from the other, shook his arm a little, and the hilt of his knife slid into his hand. He flicked it around. “Or a knife. You see, Denny, the first mistake you made was thinking I was some witless playboy pretending to be my father. I’m not a playboy, and I’m not like my father at all…in some ways.” He flipped the knife up, caught it, all without moving his other hand.

Cuthen’s mouth worked; his eyes had moved to the knife but were now fixed on the gun muzzle as if he could see through the barrel into Rafe’s intent. Rafe hoped he could.

“The second mistake you made was thinking that you could keep fooling the company forever, pocketing the money that should’ve gone to our fleet—”

“I didn’t! They kept cutting our budget; it’s not my fault—”

“Even a divisional director’s salary doesn’t cover your expenditures,” Rafe said. “Or did you think no one would ever think to look at your financials?”

“You
spied
on me? On a division director?” Indignation overcame fear, for a moment: a flush of color, but then he paled again.

“It was my assigned job, to learn all I could about the corporation, so I could make the best decisions,” Rafe said. “So yes, I followed the money trails where they led.” He paused. Cuthen squirmed in his chair. “And one of them led to you. Money came into your department; money left…but not all to the fleet. You paid Despardeaux Materials more than their going rate for spare parts, for instance. Ten percent more. That’s…over five hundred thousand a year, and you probably split it with them, didn’t you?” Rafe shook his head, waggled the point of the knife. “Naughty boy, Denny. Some men I’ve been around would carve their initials in your most intimate areas before they killed you, very slowly, for something like that.”

“You—you can’t. You won’t…”

“Oh, I don’t know. You fellows down in Enforcement have some nice quiet rooms, I understand…”

“Please—”

“Let’s go on to your next mistake. Once I was named CEO, and you figured I was a stupid playboy, you thought you didn’t have to follow orders…so when I told you—told you, specifically—to inform all those who had repaired ansibles that they need not worry about our response, you chose to interpret that…loosely.”

“I told my people to send messages—”

“How many places did you send ships?”

“Uh…I’m not sure…”

“Really. Are you in the habit of not knowing how you’re distributing our resources?”

“No, but…but this was a special case, see. Some of those places, systems we’ve done business with for years, I could see your point, maybe. They’re frustrated, and they’re friendly. We can let them go, maybe, though I still think that’s the wrong approach. At least they ought to pay a fine. But illegals, like that whatsit you were calling about—that’s ridiculous. We can’t authorize every privateer or renegade merc company to go meddling with our property.”

“This is not ‘every privateer,’” Rafe said. His finger wanted to twitch just that few millimeters; he forced it to hold still. He could feel it, the darkness rising to a primeval shape of fury that delighted in Cuthen’s fear and would gladly delight in his blood, given the chance. “In point of fact, that is another mistake of yours. The Space Defense Force is new, yes, and small, yes, but it is a legitimate attempt to combine system resources to resist and eventually destroy the menace that attacked and captured Bissonet System.”

“How?” Cuthen had moved past that first fear to defiance; Rafe read his physical signs as easily as if they were printed on his face. He was going to try something; Rafe hoped it would be enough to justify serious violence.

“That is my business,” he said, knowing it would infuriate Cuthen more. “On my father’s orders, I did a lot of undercover work for ISC, offplanet. I have sources you lack, and I know these people are reliable. Now: your deputy tells me that you have sent an entire sector’s resources—fourteen of our ships—to attack them. Your life, Denny, depends on what happens. Your physical life, I mean. Your life with this company—your job, your income, and whatever assets we can retrieve from what you embezzled from us—is gone.”

The shock on Cuthen’s face was almost worth it. Rafe pressed a button on his desk, and Emil opened the door. Rafe was impressed: he not only opened the door, but also remembered which way Rafe’s firearm was pointed and positioned himself out of the direct line of fire.

“Emil, have Security escort Cuthen to a secure room; he is not to have any communications device available to him.”

“Yes, sir. I have Security standing by…uh…do you have a preference?”

Emil definitely had potential. “Yes,” Rafe said. “My personal bodyguards.” He was still sifting through ISC’s Security personnel records, and another two problems had been found only a few days before. Emil nodded, and two of Gary’s finest came in. Rafe didn’t mention their names in front of Cuthen. “This is Denny Cuthen,” Rafe said. “He has embezzled from this company and he has acted counter to my direct orders in matters that will affect the company adversely. I want him held in a secure location in this building, and I don’t want him communicating with anyone.”

“Very well, sir,” the man Rafe knew as Stan said. He had drawn his own weapon. “Limits, sir?”

“Keep him alive, for the time being,” Rafe said. “I suspect he may have concealed communications equipment on his person. Search him carefully.” He lowered his weapon to the desk, and slid the knife back up his sleeve, pressing the sheath clip when it was in place.

“You can’t—you can’t do this!” Cuthen said, his gaze shifting from Rafe to the two guards.

“I think you will find I can,” Rafe said. “It would be advisable to go quietly with these gentlemen and cooperate with them.”

“If you please, sir,” Stan said. “Stand up now, put your hands behind your head, and turn to face the windows.” Slowly, Cuthen did as he was told. Rafe, alert to the physical signs, saw the moment when he realized he’d lost everything. It wasn’t as satisfying as if he’d beaten the man to a pulp himself, but it was a start.