of reassuring masculine strength. And he also embodied the history of the CNE, for his family had been wiped out in the Islamic insurgency of 2039, leaving him—a boy of ten with little besides the records of his birth—to rise without any advantages through the ranks of the Navy.
It was, Andrew had often thought, as though nature and chance had conspired to produce a man ideally suited for an inevitable rise to the CNE’s political apex. And so it was proving to be.
The CNE’s Legislative Assembly was apportioned according to a formula that allocated each nation a number of delegates based on a three-way compromise among population, the fiction of equal sovereignty, and a complex calculation that was popularly known (to the teeth-clenched fury of those nations that were not its beneficiaries) as the “civilization factor.” Each nation then chose its delegates by popular election. Valdes had just been elected from the United States, of which he had, at some point in his past, become a naturalized citizen. He was being widely touted as a coming man—the next president-general, an office elected according to an equally complex electoral formula under which his array of birthright constituencies was advantageous. Indeed, the pundits were starting to use the word “inevitability” in connection with his name.
Now he smiled his well-known smile. “I had that ‘under the circumstances’ coming, Ms. Arnstein. I deeply apologize for the methods used by my men. They mean well, but I’m afraid we’re dealing with extremely limited rocket-scientist potential.” He turned to Andrew. “My apologies to you also, Captain Roark. I imagine the sudden change of plan occasioned by your unanticipated appearance confused them.”
Andrew shook his head to clear it of a fog of unreality. “You know who we are, then. So why have we been kidnapped?”
“Please! At most, you’ve been taken into temporary protective custody.”
“An extralegal form of it,” Andrew interjected.
“And, as I indicated, there was never any intention of taking you at all,” Valdes continued with no indication of having heard. “But when you unexpectedly showed up . . . well, we just had to adapt to circumstances.”
Sheer irritation completed the clearing of Andrew’s head. “You still haven’t explained why you found it necessary to abduct Ms. Arnstein in the first place.”
“Again, that’s too strong a word. I had learned—never mind how—of Ms. Arnstein’s quest to learn the truth about her father’s death. By the way, Ms. Arnstein, please accept my sincere condolences. And . . . if I may ask, how did your inquiries happen to lead you to the Gev-Tizath embassy?”
“I learned that father had been in communication with a certain Tizathon scholar.” Rachel suddenly seemed to clamp shut a barrier of caution, and Andrew silently released his breath. “Beyond that, I’d rather not say at this time.”
“Very well. But I must impress upon you that I am not motivated by idle curiosity. You see . . . well, there’s no good way to say this, but I happen to know that your father was murdered. And I have reason to believe I know why—but not by whom. That’s what I’m trying to find out, but my inquiries have to be outside official channels because I don’t know who can and can’t be trusted.”
The very last vestiges of disorientation drained from Andrew like water from a broken jug, for he had just learned two very important points of data. Valdes is lying. And he doesn’t know that I know he’s lying—otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken the lie to Rachel in my hearing. All of which means that, from this moment on, I’d better play my cards very close to my chest.
And the game he must play had acquired yet another level of complexity. Rachel—for whom he had, for reasons as immemorial as they were irrational, come to feel protective—did not know Valdes was lying. Nor did she know what Andrew knew about the real
It was, Andrew had often thought, as though nature and chance had conspired to produce a man ideally suited for an inevitable rise to the CNE’s political apex. And so it was proving to be.
The CNE’s Legislative Assembly was apportioned according to a formula that allocated each nation a number of delegates based on a three-way compromise among population, the fiction of equal sovereignty, and a complex calculation that was popularly known (to the teeth-clenched fury of those nations that were not its beneficiaries) as the “civilization factor.” Each nation then chose its delegates by popular election. Valdes had just been elected from the United States, of which he had, at some point in his past, become a naturalized citizen. He was being widely touted as a coming man—the next president-general, an office elected according to an equally complex electoral formula under which his array of birthright constituencies was advantageous. Indeed, the pundits were starting to use the word “inevitability” in connection with his name.
Now he smiled his well-known smile. “I had that ‘under the circumstances’ coming, Ms. Arnstein. I deeply apologize for the methods used by my men. They mean well, but I’m afraid we’re dealing with extremely limited rocket-scientist potential.” He turned to Andrew. “My apologies to you also, Captain Roark. I imagine the sudden change of plan occasioned by your unanticipated appearance confused them.”
Andrew shook his head to clear it of a fog of unreality. “You know who we are, then. So why have we been kidnapped?”
“Please! At most, you’ve been taken into temporary protective custody.”
“An extralegal form of it,” Andrew interjected.
“And, as I indicated, there was never any intention of taking you at all,” Valdes continued with no indication of having heard. “But when you unexpectedly showed up . . . well, we just had to adapt to circumstances.”
Sheer irritation completed the clearing of Andrew’s head. “You still haven’t explained why you found it necessary to abduct Ms. Arnstein in the first place.”
“Again, that’s too strong a word. I had learned—never mind how—of Ms. Arnstein’s quest to learn the truth about her father’s death. By the way, Ms. Arnstein, please accept my sincere condolences. And . . . if I may ask, how did your inquiries happen to lead you to the Gev-Tizath embassy?”
“I learned that father had been in communication with a certain Tizathon scholar.” Rachel suddenly seemed to clamp shut a barrier of caution, and Andrew silently released his breath. “Beyond that, I’d rather not say at this time.”
“Very well. But I must impress upon you that I am not motivated by idle curiosity. You see . . . well, there’s no good way to say this, but I happen to know that your father was murdered. And I have reason to believe I know why—but not by whom. That’s what I’m trying to find out, but my inquiries have to be outside official channels because I don’t know who can and can’t be trusted.”
The very last vestiges of disorientation drained from Andrew like water from a broken jug, for he had just learned two very important points of data. Valdes is lying. And he doesn’t know that I know he’s lying—otherwise he wouldn’t have spoken the lie to Rachel in my hearing. All of which means that, from this moment on, I’d better play my cards very close to my chest.
And the game he must play had acquired yet another level of complexity. Rachel—for whom he had, for reasons as immemorial as they were irrational, come to feel protective—did not know Valdes was lying. Nor did she know what Andrew knew about the real
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