“Okay, you’ve saved yourself twenty minutes. The point you’re going for is?”
“My world, my people, I care. So far, aside from the mercs that got splashed up north, all we’ve had is property damage. That’s not Bernard’s style. Someone is exerting a lot of influence to keep things on a simmer. I’m glad of that, but that same person has to know things will boil over. He can’t control someone like Bernard. No one can.”
I narrowed my eyes. “No one? Not even you?”
“I can control him, but I have to be able to put him away.”
“And you want me to give him to you, somehow?”
“No, that would be going back to the part of the conversation we skipped. You won’t do that. Fine.” He slowly stood. “I will get him, one way or another. A smart guy like you might just want to be clear before that happens.”
I looked up. “And how would a smart guy like me know when that was going to happen?”
“Same way that someone who called a tip into PSD knew when the assault up north was happening. You’re not smart enough to leave Basalt, so I hope you’ll be smart enough that you don’t get stuck here forever.”
Niemeyer didn’t offer to give me a hand up, much less a ride back to the Grand Germayne. When I could finally stand I checked myself for injuries. I had lots of bruising on my stomach and chest, but no cracked ribs as nearly as I could tell. I was going to be pretty tender for a while, but could still function.
Once I got to the street, I figured out where I was and made my own way back to the Grand Germayne. I entered through the garage and got to my room unnoticed. For once no one else was waiting for me, so I stripped my clothes off and tossed them into the shower. I let the water run fast and hot, and the steam filling the bathroom felt good. I also liked the fact that it coated the mirror so I didn’t have to look at the purple mottling.
I showered carefully, bagged the sopping clothes and called for valet service, then dressed and headed out again. I arrived at the main branch of the public library and stood next to a statue of a stylized lion from the hour to ten past, then wandered down the street to a Javapulse Generator. I got coffee and a scone, getting halfway through both by the time Gypsy showed up.
He was smiling broadly enough that he indulged in a pastry, too. “It was brilliant. We are set to go with the details of publicity and our next move.” He glanced at the storefront and I visualized it all fire-blackened and melted.
“When?”
“We launch our campaign tonight, with full coverage tomorrow for the early news cycle.”
“Good. What do you need me to do?”
He chewed and then swallowed as he drew his noteputer from his pocket. “We had hit on an angle of directing praise and, hopefully, money to some worthy causes. I have a list. Pick one.”
I looked at the list, then frowned. “The Basalt Foundation isn’t on here.”
“Family ties make it a negative.”
“I disagree. She offers such a contrast to the others that she makes them look worse. They have ostracized her, and she is so nice, they look yet more like monsters. Moreover, having her still present means that when an olive branch is extended, there will be someone who can accept it and salve the sensibilities of disaffected portions of the population, especially the off-worlders she’s helped. We have to look two steps ahead here, don’t we?”
Gypsy slowly nodded. “I’d actually had it on the list, but Elle argued for it to be deleted. It’s back on and it’s the one we’ll use. I like your analysis.”
“Good. Do you need me tonight?”
“Why, you have a hot date?”
I winced as I shifted in my chair, then tapped a finger to the slight bruising on my cheek. “Niemeyer’s boys wanted to convince me to leave Basalt. I could use a lot of sleep.”
“We’ve got it covered. Sleep well.” Gypsy smiled, then jerked a thumb at the shop. “Me, I’m going back for two more, large and hot. It’s going to be a long night.”
Manville boasted eight Javapulse Generators scattered about. We hit three outside downtown, then hit the largest in the heart of the city. As seen on some surveillance holos, a hovercar cruised past the place, a thermal detector checked for inhabitants, then a satchel containing high explosives and a detonator sailed through the plate glass. It bounced once or twice as the hovercar sped away, then a vicious gout of fire vomited from the storefront. Debris spread everywhere and out at the Heights’ site the fire companies arrived too late to stop a Capellan-owned shoe store next door from burning. Luckily it was empty, too.
Almost immediately FfW made its appearance, claiming credit for our previous strikes. The media messages pointed out that the explosives used in these attacks were from the same lot as had been used previously. FfW denounced the BSU as a government operation, citing the extra strikes BSU had taken credit for. FfW went so far as to claim that the reason the attack against the Palace had gone awry is because Ff W, in its quest for freedom for all, had tipped off Emblyn Security. “While we decry the private possession of weapons of war, in a time when the government cannot be trusted, we must be free to make ourselves secure.”
The reasons given for attacking JPGs were the usual. They were part of a multiplanetary corporation that generated lots of profits and drew them off-world. While JPG did employ a large number of people, they only offered the Republic-mandated minimums for benefits, and their wages, while competitive within the service industry arena, were barely enough for someone to rise to middle-class status. “Until such capital enterprises realize they have a duty to the community—the whole community—their cost of doing business as a bad neighbor will be high and get higher.”
I don’t know who Gypsy used to speak to JPG officials locally, but by noon on the seventeenth, the remaining JPGs had initiated several schemes to help improve their images. They donated a lot of product to shelters, as well as put out boxes as collection points for all manner of things to be distributed to the less fortunate. By four in the afternoon they announced a strategic alliance with the Basalt Foundation to fund some daycare centers for parents with young children.
That part of the plan actually worked far better than I had expected, and I knew Bernard would begin to react. Alba was all that stood between him and being out of control. I had to debate as to whether or not I wanted to flick that safety switch off. Without her he’d lose a competent planner. While I expected he would begin to model his little attacks after the JPG strikes, that also assumed he wouldn’t think he could do things better his way.
It turned out this was a flawed assumption.
I decided that I might not want Alba out of the picture, but having her a bit uncomfortable with Bernard would be good. Using the dead-drop system, I sent her a note saying, “Talked with your boss. He was curious about what you heard from me and when. Be careful.” Once I left it and made the mark in the appropriate place, I returned to the park and saw it get picked up.
I smiled. At least she would be warned. Forewarned is forearmed, and in this game, if you weren’t forearmed, you would end up dead.
In retrospect, that was a lesson I should have thought a lot more about.
33
Guerillas never win wars, but their adversaries often lose them.
—Charles W. Thayer
Manville, Capital District
Basalt
Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere
18 February 3133
My warning to Alba Dolehide resulted in a harvest of unintended consequences, which took my plan, removed all calculation, and let things roll forward at the level of gang warfare. While there were resulting casualties, there were no fatalities, but I had no sense that this would always be the case. In fact, I had a disturbing certainty it would not be, and that things would deteriorate rather quickly.
Though I did not learn about it until later, the message to Alba was delivered, but the courier told Teyte about its content. Teyte immediately assumed that Alba was in league with me, an
d that both of us were in the employ of Emblyn. Teyte moved to grab her and have her interrogated as I had been, but Alba was one step ahead of him. She’d learned about my meeting with Bernard, looked far enough ahead to see what was going to be coming down, and had already slipped away. With her went a certain amount of knowledge about where a couple of ’Mechs and several vehicles had been stashed, so not only did Bernard lose competent leadership, he also lost a portion of his firepower.
That loss of firepower was a very good thing, because Bernard decided to hit Emblyn all over the place. It struck me that Bernard must have been getting tactical advice from somewhere, because as things progressed his attacks became more tightly focused and, while still doing more damage than was absolutely required, they were stinging Emblyn badly.
In the immediate aftermath of the JPG strikes, Bernard hit four Minute-Meal™ eateries. They were a Republic-wide chain of franchise quick-food restaurants and, here on Basalt, Emblyn owned them. Those attacks mirrored the FfW attacks and, for all intents and purposes, people assumed FfW had done them.
For his next trick, however, Bernard blew up an IceKing warehouse. IceKing was a grocery supply company owned by Emblyn that delivered product to Minute-Meal™ and JPG, as well as a large number of other restaurants. Quam did an article decrying this shadow war spilling over and affecting the culinary genius native to Basalt. In short, he wrote, the destruction of nonnative eateries was fine by him, but when such an attack destroyed a source of good food for all, things were getting out of hand. While the piece did seem to be praising the terrorists, Quam’s true point was that the strikes, while they had killed no one yet, were destroying lives. Those people who worked in the shops that had been put out of business were forced to take temporary jobs or go on the dole.
He centered his story around a small family restaurant that had been serving Asian food for three generations, and showed how their business had been destroyed by the attack. Quam used his skills as a writer to point out the absurdity of Bernard and others calling ethnic Kuritans and Capellans off-worlders, His outrage at their treatment was enough to get blood boiling in some sectors, and a number of private donations flowed to the family profiled.
Quam was unique in his writing because he actually took a stance on the issue. The rest of the newsies focused on rumor and innuendo, ignoring the microeconomic impact to cover instead their projected fears for the future. Articles whined about how unbridled warfare like this could make the Basalt economy grind to a halt. The fact that it had ground to a halt for the affected families was something relegated to the “soft ’n fluffy” parts of media reports.
Gypsy immediately stepped up the Ff W’s rhetoric, decrying some attacks, usurping others. He also picked a variety of targets for FfW operations. Gypsy was sharp enough to choose targets where he could minimize the sort of impact Quam had complained about. Toward this end he authorized a lot of transportation and vehicle hits. The approaches to a couple of bridges got blown and then repair vehicles were destroyed, maximizing inconvenience for all without putting anyone out of a job.
What it took Bernard some time to figure out was that this new wave of strikes, which came very thick over the next three days, might have hurt Emblyn a little, but they really damaged the government. Officials had been standing up to say that they would protect the citizenry, but all of a sudden attacks were happening all over the place. Because they came off at night, people tended to stay home, which put a damper on most of the nightlife economy. Companies that did not believe the government could protect them took to posting their hours of business very prominently. As one entrepreneur put it, “We can remodel and rebuild, but we don’t want to do so after funerals.”
The Germayne government immediately authorized overtime for constables and the Public Safety Department. Officials said they’d sent requests for assistance to The Republic’s Planetary Legate, Tawanna Thurin. She said she’d forwarded the pleas but had heard nothing back. I doubted the messages sent were anywhere close to reaching Terra, so nothing like Stone’s Lament was going to show up to set things to rights. News stories noted that new taxes would have to be levied to pay for the overtime, but that was a black cloud hovering on the horizon.
Society did begin to crack openly under the pressure. Charity, which had spiked when the LIT campaign began, started to tail off as people hoarded things against the uncertainty of the future. There was no way they could know if they would be the next victim, so they weren’t donating money and, since they really didn’t want to expose themselves to danger, many stopped volunteering their time. Moreover, because the rich in the Heights had been the target of an attack, they resented the terrorists and felt that since, clearly, none of their “own” would be part of such a group, it was war on their class and they sought to retain what they already possessed. The lower classes began to keep to themselves, with each cultural population segregating itself to its own neighborhoods and businesses.
Even Ring Emblyn’s charity efforts shrank. He focused on taking care of the people who had worked for him and had been subject to attack. This still played well in the press, but instead of folks thanking him for his generosity, it was folks in his employ thanking him for his “loyalty.” While that’s not a bad trait, it does draw a line between us and them, and the thems often don’t like being on the outside.
About the only person who came out smelling like a rose was Bianca. The Basalt Foundation moved quickly, cutting deals to supply people with everything they needed to survive the sudden loss of their jobs—regardless of cultural heritage. While the absolute numbers were relatively small, every single one of them was a wonderful media filler piece. Smiling faces on folks laden with armsful of clothing, toiletries and treats, singing the praises of Bianca Germayne, played very well, especially when counterpointed against local government officials saying that everyone would have to tighten their belts and pull together until the crisis passed.
Gypsy realized the full import of the attack on me. He already knew I’d betrayed Bernard’s plans to him, but that my usefulness as a double agent was limited. We had to assume that, one way or another, Bernard would be keeping tabs on me. My job, then, was to keep out of sight to make him use resources to find me, or become very visible. Gypsy, by having others watch me, would be able to pick up on Bernard’s agents, identify them, and set them up for neutralization.
Either strategy would work for Gypsy, but both of them meant I was out of play. It made sense, since I’d been compromised. Gypsy, based on target selections, was keeping with the overall LIT plan, but I hated not being informed about what was going on. Gypsy was, after all, a mercenary. If Emblyn started pressuring him from above and Catford from below, he might decide to kick things into high gear and a lot of things would be laid waste that didn’t need to be. In essence, with Alba vanishing from Bernard’s camp, and my being ostracized from Emblyn’s camp, the folks most likely to apply the brakes were gone.
I opted for the plan that would make me very visible. I had to because going to ground meant I’d have even less of a chance of knowing what was going on. In addition, having me wandering about would give Bernard more to think about, and that might slow him down. It would also keep Niemeyer happy since he didn’t have to go digging for me. Lastly, by being visible, it was possible for me to make reports.
The dead-drop I’d used with Alba was not the only one I employed. Prior to coming to Basalt I was given information on a number of dead-drops that The Republic had already established on the world. While it might have seemed unusual for a government to be setting up procedures that allowed their agents to spy on the citizenry, in essence they were just planning ahead for the eventuality that an undercover operation might have to be run some day.
When I reached Basalt I scouted the sites and then made a wrong-number call that activated a run on the notification target. Basically I made a call to someone, asked for Mr. Arkadis, and was told there was no one of that name there. I said, “This must have be
en his old number.” They said, “We’ve had this number for twenty years.” I said, “Oh, my mistake. Happens when you’re older than The Republic.” Whoever I spoke to would relay that conversation to others, then orders would be given to check a drop target. No one had a clue as to who I was, and I didn’t know who they were, and that kept us all safe.
The reports I’d sent back had been pretty basic: just identifying people, trends and so on. I had little time for in-depth analysis, but I did note that both sides seemed to have enough people for a decent shooting war. In my latest report I noted that unless Bernard was able to activate the Basalt Militia, the edge in military strength would go to Emblyn. The losses sustained at the Palace coupled with Alba’s disappearance put Bernard at a severe disadvantage. I would have liked a company of Lament on planet to use to curb him when, not if, push came to shove.
I put that into my last report. I had no idea if any of my reports had even made it off Basalt.
I left the Grand Germayne and made some basic checks to see if I was being followed. I didn’t think I was, but aborted my run to the dead-drop. Something didn’t feel right, and I wasn’t certain if it was external or internal.
Instead of doing my ghostly business, I headed to one of the Basalt Foundation relief centers. It would have been easy to talk myself into believing I was going there to get a feel for the social impact of LIT, but I knew that was a lie. I was playing puppetmaster, and things were going along too well. I didn’t have a connection to the people being hurt. It could have been a residual effect of reading Quam’s stories, but whatever the cause I did want to see what was going on at the center.
And I wanted to see, firsthand, how Bianca handled the enormous pressure she was under.
I asked for Bianca and was directed to the large commercial kitchen where meals were being prepared for later in the day. The dining hall could seat five hundred at a time, and a schedule on the wall showed they had four seatings spaced forty-five minutes apart. People had already lined up for the first seating, and they looked to be a mix from all cultures and almost all social classes.
Ghost War Page 26
