As foretold, Bianca was in the kitchen and so was Quam. Even Snookums was there, sitting on a stainless-steel table. He had a little chef’s mushroom-cap on his head and growled when he saw me. Quam, who was chopping black mushrooms with a nimble facility flicked a sliver of fungus to the dog, which it snapped out of the air and quieted down.
Bianca smiled. “Sam, what brings you here? Do I see the last of a bruise on your face? What happened?”
I smiled and brushed my fingertips over my cheek. “Walked into a wall.” I refrained from opening my shirt, where my chest was still a mess, because I didn’t think she’d believe that the wall had retaliated by walking all over me. “They’re keeping you very busy, aren’t they?”
Quam laughed. “And we thought you capable of seeing more than the obvious, Sam. Aprons are over there, gloves next. Mix these mushrooms into that stuffing, then fill those game hens.”
“Yes, Commander.” I complied with his order and began to work. Bianca wandered in and out, not so much giving orders as just encouraging people to work together. Quam explained that half the staff were volunteers like me, drawn from the clientele, and the others, who handled most of the cooking, were students at a local culinary school, or apprentices with some of the restaurants that had been put out of business.
I frowned. “If the attacks on IceKing put those places out of business, how is it that the shelter here has food?”
Quam smiled. “Fine restaurants will not serve food that has survived a bomb blast. It still eats fine, but be careful. If you feel any shrapnel in the stuffing, set it aside.”
I thought he was kidding, then I noticed a couple of pieces of jagged metal in a small pile on the table. They looked like pieces of nails, which would be in keeping with nail bombs. While such devices were fairly easy to make and therefore quite common, the nails generally indicated something that was meant as an antipersonnel weapon.
Bernard, while using my game plan, was improvising on the means of execution.
“What’s the reaction been to your pieces about the FfW hits?”
“They vary from sympathetic outrage, to those who want to know why I’m covering that instead of puking their press release about some new food product into my reports.” He glanced up. “You read them. What did you think?”
“Pretty brave.” I pointed to the nails. “No telling when someone on the other side might take umbrage and make you a target.”
“True, but how can I let that stop me? My job is to write about food and life on Basalt. These strikes are affecting both. Moreover, so many people here are willing to turn a blind eye to things, and yet that is not what our parents and grandparents did in establishing The Republic. If I don’t stand up against tyranny the way they did, am I a worthy heir to this life?”
“You clearly think the answer is, ‘no.” ’
“And you don’t?” He brandished the knife. “You can say you don’t, but you do, Sam. You’d not have given money to the Foundation if you didn’t. You’d not be here helping.”
“I gave money because that was our deal, Quam. I’m helping because you have a knife.” I shrugged. “And even if you’re right, I don’t know that it’s worth my life.”
“I know it’s worth mine, but mine is not in jeopardy.” The fat man smiled ruefully. “I am Quam. Hard to forget, but easy to dismiss. When the Journal decides that with no nightlife there need be no Quam, I will fade. Even though my words should be taken seriously, they aren’t and won’t be.”
“You don’t think so?”
He laughed and his jowls quivered. “In this madhouse world? No. The government has made people angry, and likewise Emblyn has made them angry. Now, are the angry people a part of the government striking at enemies, or angry people striking at enemies, or hunks of both? The latter has to be true, because while angry people might protest and even riot, not many can field BattleMechs.”
“That’s a point the press seems to have missed.”
“No, it’s a point that the Constabulary has asked the media to back away from. They don’t want to start a panic.” He waved the knife toward the dining area. “Two weeks ago, two sittings would be almost full. Now we turn people away. There already is a panic.”
“More astute observations.”
“I’ll give you one more to mull while you stuff those birds, Sam. This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. The ’Mechs that attacked the Palace aren’t the last we’ll see on Basalt. When the real shooting starts, it will be bad. Instead of feeding people, this place will be turned into a charnel house. And if that doesn’t make you lose your appetite, nothing ever will.”
34
That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
—Old saying
Or it just leaves us weaker for the next thing that wants to kill us. And the next thing. And the next thing.
—Mason Dunne
Manville, Capital District
Basalt
Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere
22 February 3133
I stuck around and helped serve the meals I’d prepared. I guess, in part, it was because I was feeling guilty over the trouble I’d instigated. The people who came in were grateful for the food, and many were the offers to help clean up. In fact, the last seating helped clean the room, stacked chairs, and there was no segregation. A cynic might have noted that trouble makes brothers of us all, but I tended to think that some people were able to put aside petty and benign differences to help each other. That was what I would have expected from reading about Basalt, and here I saw it. Bernard might be pushing divisive ideas, but his sister was unifying people.
Once things had been cleaned up, the staff sat down and had leftovers, of which there was not much. I did get a bit of one of the game hens and the stuffing. There was no shrapnel in it, which would have been the only thing that could have marred perfection. Not only could Quam write about food, but he could cook as well.
I looked at him. “You cook so well, why don’t you have a restaurant of your own?”
He laughed at me. “Your innocence is refreshing, Sam.”
Bianca smiled and got up from our table. “I’ve heard this lecture before, so I’ll go get us some dessert.”
Quam waited for her to leave, then interlaced his fingers and settled them over the curve of his middle. “In running a restaurant, one has to give lots of orders, which I can do, and prepare many meals, which I can do. What I cannot do, however, is subject my genius to the know-nothing-but-ready-to-share-their-ignorance customers and critics who will come to my establishment. People who dine out want two things: good food and different food. They will hunt down the latter before they settle for the former. I could create a menu of the best dishes ever created on Basalt or in The Republic, and people would still quest after the new thinking, quite wrongly, it would be better.”
I gave him a smile. “Well, it could be better, couldn’t it?”
Snookums, seated on a stool beside Quam, growled.
The man hushed the dog. “He’s innocent, remember?” Quam regarded me with half-lidded eyes. “On a good day, on the chef’s best day, perhaps. That is immaterial, however, because there is a second, greater reason to avoid it: I would be bored. Doing the same thing, day in and day out, even allowing for innovation, would kill me. Better to venture in the wilderness seeking that magical meal that approaches the divine than to dish up Olympian fare every day. I mean, Sam, would you want that sort of wretched, stable life?”
I hesitated. There were times when the idea of settling down with Janella did strike me as perfect, but more often I liked the challenges of what I did. The hunt, as he described it, was fun, and the victory, better. I had the luxury, perhaps illusory, of believing what I did helped people. Quam could make that same claim and, on a daily basis, he had a stronger case than I did.
I shook my head. “No, I guess not. Still, it would be great to have a place where one could get food this good when I wanted to.”
I won’t describe dessert because I don’t want to think about it anymore—being as how the chances of tasting something that good again are nil. After dessert, I helped clean up, then took a long walk back to the Grand Germayne. I checked a couple of times to see if I had a tail, but didn’t detect anyone. I hoped that any agents Bernard or Gypsy had covering me had enjoyed dinner, at the very least.
As I’d left the building, Bianca and others had said they hoped I’d be back. Part of me wanted to return, but I knew I couldn’t afford that luxury. While I might have been able to help there a little, I’d also attract attention to Bianca’s operation. Bernard or Emblyn might decide to hit the place just to make a point to me or to just kill me. I didn’t want to be responsible for that sort of thing.
Moreover, I reminded myself, I was a Ghost Knight. I had to maintain a certain detachment. If I got too close to things, I would not be able to act in the manner that was vital to dealing with Basalt’s problem. I needed to be clear-headed and impartial, so I could play the wolves off against each other and, hopefully, control the damage they were doing. I had to remain cool and aloof, so there would be no more charity work for me.
My other job came first, and if I failed at it, all the meals the Foundation served wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans.
At the hotel, the desk clerk caught my eye and handed me a message. It had been sealed in one of the hotel’s envelopes. I opened it and saw a simple message: The Bar. E. I refolded it, half wondered why Elle wasn’t waiting for me in my room as she had before, and walked into the bar.
I found her at a corner table studiously avoiding the glances from a group of men at the bar. The guys immediately checked me out and watched. I figured a number of them had made a run at her and had been shot down. They were waiting to see me crash and burn, so without even a word, I slid onto the bench beside her and gave her a huge kiss. A slap would amuse them, fingers in my hair would annoy them—win-win in my book.
Elle returned the kiss, slipping her fingers into my hair, and holding my mouth on hers until, I’m guessing, the groans from the bar had reached a piteous enough note. I gasped, as did she, then she licked her lips and smiled. “I’m happy to see you, too, Sam.”
“And you weren’t waiting in my room because?”
“Colonel Niemeyer of Public Safety obtained a court order to plant listening devices in there. The order was sealed, of course, but . . .” She bridged her fingers and cracked her knuckles. “I can’t cut off the data flow, so you had to be warned.”
“I’d actually assumed someone was listening in, so all I do is sing in the shower.”
“You might talk in your sleep.”
“Good point. Did I on Helen?”
A flicker of annoyance tightened her features. “Let’s not talk about Helen, shall we?”
I nodded, then looked at her carefully. “Tell me, then, what else is going on. It’s something more urgent, else you’d have left me a note I’d figure out.”
Elle lowered her voice and leaned into me, nibbling at my left earlobe as she whispered. “Gypsy has authorized a mission two nights from now. It’s at the Hanse Highway and Thirty-ninth Avenue. He wants to hit a communications switching station. It will take communications down for the Heights. Catford didn’t like it initially, but he thinks he can make it work with a few hovercars.”
I let myself laugh as I thought. I didn’t know the city that well, but Hanse Highway had exits every fifth street, so the closest there was Fortieth. That would make getting out difficult if things went bad, since heading east on Thirty-ninth would lead directly into the twisting, hilly warrens of the Heights. Catford was right to not like the situation, and it was rather typical of him to think he could change things to his favor somehow.
I whispered back to her. “Why tell me?”
“I thought you might be able to take a look and give me your thoughts tomorrow night. If the plan can be modified, it should be. Things are going so well, we don’t want to lose control now.”
I pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “You’re risking a lot. If you have to tell Gypsy to abort, you’ll need to tell him you told me his plans.”
“If we need to abort, he won’t care. If we don’t, he won’t know.”
“Fair enough.” I thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll check it out and meet you here for breakfast day after tomorrow.”
Elle frowned. “Why so long?”
“To know if the plan is going to work, I need to study the area and that will be a day and night job. Order something filling for me, and lots of coffee, very strong.” I gave her another kiss, just for appearances sake. “You were right to bring this to me. No disasters this late in the game.”
As I told her, figuring out what sort of plan would work to take the place out would take a lot of work. I got up bright and early the next morning, packed a day bag with some clothes and a pair of nice digital binoculars, then took a hovercab to a rental agency. I procured a Cabochon Hovercar which, I was assured, was the most popular model on the planet because of its safety construction. That meant it was small, boxy, heavy, sluggish, cheap, ugly and unlikely to attract any notice at all. In an accident I’d be protected enough not to die, though the embarrassment of being caught in it might just do the job.
And I did pay extra for insurance. I did that on a whim, but some of Elle’s uneasiness had transferred itself to me. I normally am not superstitious in the least, so I hate it when I get “feelings” of impending doom. Still, whenever I do I take appropriate action to combat them, and I can’t think of many situations where that has been the wrong thing to do.
I drove around the site, which was Basalt Public Digicom Routing Station No. 8. The brick building rose to two stories for most of its rectangular length. The front had a single story and lots of windows, serving as a store where service could be purchased and bills could be paid. It had a small parking lot in front, and a longer one on the south side. The highway passed in front of it, elevated to twice the height of the building, and Thirty-ninth Avenue paralleled the long north side. A wire fence surrounded the perimeter and cameras mounted on light poles monitored everything, but beyond that I saw almost nothing in the way of security.
In my recon effort I constantly checked to see if I was being watched, but I couldn’t detect any surveillance on me. I felt fairly confident that I was clean, but did periodic sweeps in case someone ran across me accidentally and started to follow me. Starting at No. 8, I worked out in a spiral, noting the location of Constabulary precinct houses, fire houses and anything else that looked suspicious—which wasn’t much in this mostly Davion section of town. I could have noted any buildings suited to housing BattleMechs—there were certainly a few of them—but their exact locations were not important. The fact that they existed within my search area was not a good sign, but any ’Mechs or troops hidden therein could only be brought into play if the mission failed to get in and out quickly.
I watched throughout the day, pausing only to get lunch and then supper at nearby restaurants where workers from the center ate. I didn’t pick up much in the way of gossip. The heaviest shift traffic was during daylight hours. It nearly filled the employee lot, but the second shift appeared to be nothing more than a few security personnel. This boded well for minimizing casualties, and calling in a bomb threat to the plant just prior to the strike might guarantee all security personnel exited the building.
In fact, such a call coming in from FfW folks disguised as bomb removal teams would work really well. They could go in, wire the place, then come back out and say it was badly compromised. It goes up, they light out, and the damage is done without anyone getting hurt. I liked that idea and would certain pass it on through Elle so Gypsy could employ it.
> By early evening it became apparent that the site was not quite as badly situated as I had feared. While it was not close enough to the highway to let that be a fast escape route, Thirty-ninth Avenue had such light traffic that heading west into the city would be easy to do. While I did not like Catford as a person, his defense of the Emblyn Palace did show some tactical sense. If he timed the strike for sometime after midnight, things could work.
In fact, Catford had the attack go off at 12:06 A.M.
While I watched.
My mind began to race as a trio of hoverbikes—military grade hoverbikes—came screaming up Thirty-ninth, cut south and bumped up over the curb. They came into the smaller parking lot and pointed their lasers at the building. In unison the pilots cut loose, sending coruscating beams of ruby energy into the switching station. The glass windows melted as if they were ice. Things inside the store combusted instantly, but did nothing to stop the beams.
The hoverbikes waggled back and forth, like children squirming. Their beams played side to side, working up and down. I couldn’t see how deeply they pierced the structure, but one lanced out through a side wall while the others touched off more fires. Secondary explosions shook the building and one or two alarms that began to wail shut off immediately as some vital equipment melted.
More important than what they were doing, however, was the sudden advent of Public Safety Department agents in Hauberk battle armor. In teams of three they ran from nearby buildings. The heavy armor, painted an urban gray that worked well to camouflage them in the night, gave them bulk and deadliness. Unlike the way such armor appears in Tri-Vids, no lights illuminated the agents’ faces. They remained dark and brooding—no less sinister even without the bulk of the LRM launcher packs they would have carried on a battlefield.
Ghost War Page 27
