Юн Ли - Raven Stratagem

Mikodez dismissed the game, wondering in passing how that cadet was doing, then opened one of the files on Jedao’s history. Opened another one on Kujen. Four centuries in one case, nine in another. Both of them contained frustrating lacunae. Or rather, Jedao’s profile existed in as much detail as you’d expect, minus the usual slow rot of history. No one had anticipated that he’d prove to be a time bomb. Kujen, on the other hand, had actively obfuscated his profile for so long that Mikodez didn’t trust everything in the files. But he had to start somewhere.

Jedao had responded to Mikodez’s second attempt to contact him not with a direct communication but a simple message: Make you a deal, Shuos-zho. You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours. We can hash out the rest after the Hafn are gone.

Not a bad offer, as such things went. Even if Mikodez and his staff had good reason to believe that ensuring the Hafn’s trickling survival was Jedao’s primary plan. After all, Jedao couldn’t claim to be defending the hexarchate without the invader. Admittedly, getting rid of the Hafn wouldn’t help much, as the hexarchate had plenty of other enemies, but it might trip Jedao up. Mikodez had not said anything in response to the message. Jedao wouldn’t expect assurances in any case.

His attention turned to Kujen, whose disappearance had left such an odd hole in Mikodez’s life. They were not friends. Kujen might understand friendship as an abstraction, but he was no more friends with another human being than a shark was with a fish.

They were, however, colleagues, and they had consulted with each other on many occasions since Mikodez took the seat. Mikodez had grown dangerously fond of him, even if he hadn’t become aware of it until now. But he liked challenges, and there was no denying that dealings with Kujen, however cordial, were never safe .

Mikodez had visited Kujen’s home station twice. Kujen preferred to let his false hexarchs administer the faction, or so he said, although Mikodez had good evidence that he kept a close eye on what was being done on his behalf. Faian had ascended to false hexarch twelve years after Mikodez himself took the seat, under circumstances that strongly suggested that Kujen objected personally to Faian’s predecessor skimming off parts of the budget. The man in question had later turned up as a technician on Kujen’s personal staff—“No sense wasting talent,” Kujen had said blithely. He was much prettier, and much more docile, after Kujen got through with him.

Kujen’s taste for the beautiful was not limited to men (and the rare woman or alt). He surrounded himself with luxuries from the hexarchate’s bounty of worlds. Even if Mikodez hadn’t known from the threadbare records that Hajoret Kujen had spent his childhood as a refugee on a world whose name had changed twice in the past nine centuries, he would have guessed it from Kujen’s particular obsession with everything from hand-woven carpets to blown-glass figurines of flowers to cabinets inlaid with abalone and slivers of moonstone. He collected these objects but took no notice of them once he owned them. Mikodez had given up trying to bribe him with such mundanities long ago. When he really needed a favor, he instead offered ancient sextants and finely made orreries, artifacts that appealed to the scientist in Kujen.

Faian had stopped waffling and her people had taken control of Kujen’s old base. Mikodez expected that she’d be turning it upside-down for clues for the next decade without much luck. He’d offer help, except she was unlikely to take kindly to the suggestion that she needed it. That, and she didn’t trust him. Which, fair enough. Since he spent all that time cultivating his reputation, he couldn’t blame people for taking it to heart.

“...Miki.”

The use of his childhood nickname made Mikodez look up. Istradez wouldn’t have used it if any of the division heads remained anywhere near the room. “Yes?” he said, and rubbed his eyes. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he had eaten?

“Fine, cookies,” Istradez said. He was standing over Mikodez with his hands on his hips. “If I can’t get you to eat anything better. And then you are going to bed.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mikodez said. “You haven’t debriefed me on what the hell went on in the meeting.”

Istradez eyed him incredulously. “Are you kidding? You’ve been asleep all this time? Or sleeping with your eyes open, whatever. You’re ordinarily better about managing than this.”

“I can’t have been asleep that—” Mikodez checked the augment. Yes, he had, apparently.

Istradez’s voice softened. “Well, it’s not all bad. You missed the spectacular pissing match between Intelligence and Propaganda. I’ll fill you in later, promise. Just, you can sleep in my room, and I’ll cover for you until you’re fit for duty again.”

“Fine,” Mikodez said, since he was clearly losing this round. “Fine.”

“I’ll escort you,” Istradez said.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

Istradez visibly wavered, then nodded. He stalked back to the table, snatched up a cold spring roll, then pressed it into Mikodez’s hand. “I don’t care if you’re going to look like a kid purloining this from the appetizer tray. Eat it.” And he stood over Mikodez until he did, in fact, eat it. Then he had to drink half a glass of water to wash it down because it’d gone dry. He made a note to himself to have a word with the kitchens about that.

Mikodez took the long way to Istradez’s apartment, on the grounds that he had no reason to hurry. He amused himself by affecting Istradez’s so-what-if-I-have-my-brother’s-face slouch and cynical smile. Istradez was the better actor, since his livelihood depended on it, but Mikodez liked keeping his hand in.

He trailed his hand along the green walls, livened up from time to time by paintings of cavorting foxes or, for variety, the occasional coy moon-rabbit. Sometimes he thought about taking a vacation. The sad fact was that he rarely left the Citadel, when the highest ceremonies dictated his presence. Otherwise, he did the most good here, in the never-sleeping Shuos headquarters.

When he entered Istradez’s apartment, he almost called for security. There was someone in the room already. But then she rose up from the couch in a whisper of languid silks, bronze pearls rattling around her neck and wrists and ankles, and he relaxed.

“Spirel,” Mikodez said as the door shut behind them both.

She floated up to him in a haze of perfumes and embraced him, not entirely with platonic intent. Spirel and Mikodez and Istradez had slept together once, because Spirel had expressed an interest, Istradez was drunk out of his mind and thought the idea was really funny, and Mikodez hadn’t cared one way or the other so why not. Curiosity allegedly satisfied, she hadn’t asked again, but Mikodez occasionally wondered.

“It’s you, isn’t it,” she said with that particular wry tone.

“I hate how you can always tell,” Mikodez said into her ear.

Spirel disengaged as neatly as a voidmoth pilot and smiled at him. “That’s why I get paid so much, yes?” In academy she had been tracked not as a courtesan but as Shuos infantry. He knew from experience not to get into an arm-wrestling match with her. Technically he was stronger, but she never played by the rules. (He had no idea why, that first time, he had expected a fellow Shuos to play by the rules, even a fellow Shuos who was his sibling’s long-time lover.)

She then gave him a critical look that was so similar to the one that Istradez had given him back in the conference room that Mikodez sighed and traipsed obediently to the couch. He began to arrange himself. Spirel cleared her throat. Meekly, he took off his shoes. Spirel had very strong opinions about shoes on her couch. It might be Istradez’s apartment, but Mikodez was sure that even in Security’s room roster the couch was listed as Spirel’s particular possession.