Torch of Freedom

by David Weber

  First, he disliked—intensely—getting orders that were vague to the point of being oatmeal.

  Check out the diner and see if you can spot anything suspicious. Let me know right away on my private com if anything turns up. While you're doing that, I'll be putting McBryde through the wringer to find out what the hell he thinks he's doing.

  Wonderful. And Bardasano was supposed to be some sort of star-line genius! She might as well have told him to hang out at the playground and tell her if he spotted any of the kids acting in an unruly manner. What—specifically—did she want him to look for? Who knew?

  Something about McBryde's activities must have rattled her more than he'd thought they would. Oh, having it come at her cold probably accounted for some of that, and Irvine supposed having a peon of his own lowly rank crash her security just as she was sitting down to breakfast probably hadn't helped. Maybe she just wasn't a morning person?

  His lips quirked slightly at the thought, even now, but the temptation to smile faded quickly. At least some confusion had to be inevitable when a junior agent jumped the queue the way he had, but this struck him as more than just the inevitable bureaucratic confusion of something the size and complexity of Alignment Security. By all accounts he'd ever heard, Bardasano was normally as sharp as a razor, yet no impartial observer would have reached that conclusion based on the instructions she'd given him.

  The second source of his unhappiness, and an even greater one, was shuffling along the street about a hundred meters behind him. In addition to giving him vague instructions, Bardasano had also insisted on saddling Lajos with what she called "backup." Three people from one of her "special units"—whatever the hell that meant—who'd be there to provide him with whatever force he might need.

  Wonderful. Irvine was a spy, not some sort of stupid HD "action hero." He collected information, was what he did. If Bardasano wanted him to do his job, he'd be able to do it a lot better working on his own with no backup at all—much less "backup" whose fieldcraft was so rusty that probably the mutts in the street knew the three clowns following him were official muscle. And if, on the contrary, she wanted to crack down on whoever was at the diner this morning, then why the hell did she insist on dragging Lajos into the business at all?

  He wasn't even carrying a weapon. If for no other reason, because he was legally as well as genetically a seccy, and seccies were forbidden to possess firearms of any kind. Even having a knife whose blade was longer than six centimeters would get you arrested, if you were found with it.

  Lajos made a silent vow that in the unlikely event violence did break out in Turner's place, his contribution to the cause of righteousness was going to be to duck under a table. Let Bardasano's "specialists" deal with it. They were the kind of people who swaggered to the bathroom.

  * * *

  Herlander Simões eyed the young man in front of him uncertainly. He'd probably never been this close to a seccy in his entire life, he realized. Even by the standards of star-lines raised in privilege, he'd led a cloistered life.

  And now he was putting that life in the hands of one.

  No, two. A big, tough-looking blonde woman emerged from the back of the van. She didn't look much like a seccy, though.

  "Get in," she said. "I'll help you get tucked away in your crate."

  The woman climbed into the crate with him. The crate itself hadn't been sealed yet.

  "Now we wait," she said. "I'm Yana."

  * * *

  Jack would really have preferred to take care of all of this yesterday, yet he hadn't quite dared. In some ways, it might not be necessary at all, but he wasn't prepared to settle for "might not" at this point. There was too much data in his computer files, too much information about Simões, too much that might point an alert investigator in the right direction before Zilwicki and Cachat could get them off-planet and out of the system.

  Even more important than wiping away any fingerprints he might inadvertently have left, though, was the need to create a diversion. He and Simões were both going to be missed, probably before they could get off-planet, and certainly before they could get out-system. McBryde was pretty sure he'd figured out which of the non-Mesan ships currently in the star system was Zilwicki and Cachat's chariot, and if he could figure it out, so could someone else. So, since they were going to be missed anyway, setting up a suitable school or two of red herrings seemed in order. And the best place to do that was from right here, in his office.

  Jack was also pretty sure that Zilwicki and Cachat had their own plans for diversions, although he had no idea what they might be. Probably crude violence, since they didn't have the sort of cybernetic access he did. He hadn't asked, and if he had they probably wouldn't have told him—just as, if he'd been asked, he would have kept his own plans private. He hadn't even told Herlander what he planned to do.

  He settled into place at his desk and entered his personal access code. The display winked to life, and, despite himself, he smiled as he pulled the chip from his pocket and snapped it into place.

  * * *

  Lajos had been seated for over two minutes and been handed a menu by the time his three backup people came into the diner. At least they could follow simple instructions. He figured enough time had elapsed that no one would connect his entrance with theirs. Turner's diner was busy this time of the day.

  Most of the tables were taken, but there was an open booth against the wall across the restaurant from Irvine's table. Bardasano's three "specialists" slid into the seats.

  Lajos had to fight not to wince. This went beyond rusty tradecraft. Hadn't these clowns gotten any training at all? Just for starters, the trio consisted of two men and a woman—and the woman was sitting across from the two men. That was probably a reflection of some pecking order of their own. But that gender configuration, although certainly not unheard of, was unusual enough to draw the attention of anyone who was really a professional at this business.

  And . . . sure enough. From beneath lowered eyebrows, he saw the burly waiter turn away from the trio—he'd been about to bring them menus—and glance in the direction of the other guy Lajos was certain was a Ballroom agent.

  That one was sitting on a stool at the front counter. Lajos couldn't see him without turning his head a little. He decided to risk it, since it wasn't likely—

  He'd never been more astonished in his life. The guy was off the stool already and his hand—

  Gun!

  Irvine ducked under the table. By the time he got all the way down, the whole thing was over. In a state of shock, on his knees, he stared at the carnage across the room.

  * * *

  Anton knew what would happen the moment the three newcomers settled into their seats. Victor would have spotted them when they came in, just as instantly and surely as Zilwicki had. And he'd have drawn the same conclusion. One agent might simply be a spy. Three, especially acting in such obvious unison, meant the hammer was on its way down. Something had blown. Somehow, somewhere—who knew?—but it had definitely blown.

  Cachat's philosophy in that situation was to shoot the hand holding the hammer before they got it all the way up. He'd only been waiting for that inevitable psychological moment when even the most experienced and hardened commando feels the comfort of his or her weight settling into a seat, and relaxes just that tiny little bit.

  Giving Victor Cachat that "tiny little bit" was like giving a great white shark a "tiny little bite."

  Anton didn't even try to join in. He was as far out of Cachat's league here as the Havenite was when it came to manipulating security software. He'd just get in his way. What he did do was activate the jamming device he carried with him. If the three people who'd come in had recorders, none of them would now operate.

  Victor took out the woman first. From the seating pattern they'd assumed in the booth, she was probably the leader. Two shots to the head, without a center mass preliminary. That was useful against someone on their feet, especially with a small gun like the Kett
ridge, but more likely to be a waste of time with someone seated at a table.

  Then he double-tapped both of the men. Then he took several strides across the room and shot all three of them again. One shot each, taking just an extra split second to aim and make sure the shots were fatal. That was probably unnecessary, since they were almost certainly dead anyway. But Cachat was a firm adherent to the principle that if it was worth doing, it was worth doing well.

  He then went to stand at the door. That both prevented anyone from leaving and gave him a clear view of everyone in the diner so that—

  "Anyone who tries to use a personal com—so much as takes one in hand—I will shoot dead. Just sit still. None of you still alive are at risk."

  That wasn't entirely true, of course. By the time Victor started to point to the man under the table, Anton was already there. He reached under, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him out.

  "I'm afraid you're a suspicious sort of fellow," he said mildly. "You ducked a bit too soon."

  * * *

  Jack had actually prepared the chip several days ago, but there were too many random security checks of the Center's electronic systems for him to have risked downloading his handiwork any sooner than he absolutely had to. When the time came, though, all hell was going to be out for noon as the carefully sequenced messages—and computer-controlled acts of sabotage—raced outward. They'd start right here in the Center, invading computer memories, reducing critical molecular circuitry to slag, and then moving on to invade the Long-Range Planning Board's systems. He doubted they'd get very deep, but he could be wrong. He and Simões had combined the hyper-physicist's expertise and McBryde's knowledge of the security systems when they'd set up the attacks, so there was at least a significant chance they'd manage to do some real damage before their electronic minions were defeated. In the meantime, the master execution programs would be bootstrapping themselves about from one high security system to another and generally wreaking all the havoc they could. Coming from so deep inside, they were almost certain to cause far more chaos and confusion—not to mention damage—than any of the cyber-security types' worst nightmares had ever envisioned.

  And while all that was going on, his own frantic messages would be being dumped to the system, feverishly seeking to alert his superiors to Simões' berserk efforts to punish the Alignment for everything it had done to his daughter and to him. They'd been very carefully crafted to create the impression that McBryde was in personal pursuit of Simões . . . and that the two of them were headed directly for Mendel, where Simões intended a suicide run on the capital itself.

  That would be the final touch, the perfect cover for their escape, because that fearless protector of the Alignment, Jack McBryde, would stop the madman who'd become his friend by ramming his explosive-laden air car in midair short of the city's airspace. It would be a very large, very noisy explosion, and any wreckage would be distributed (harmlessly) over large areas of wooded countryside just outside Mendel. Eventually, it would become evident to the crash investigators that there were no human remains strewn about with it, but given how pulverized the wreckage was going to be, it would probably take them a while to reach that conclusion. By which time—

  His com pinged suddenly, and he twitched in his chair as he recognized the priority of the signal. His heart seemed to explode inside his chest for a moment, but then he shook himself. There were all kinds of reasons someone might be reaching for him on a priority basis, given his duties, he reminded himself, and hit the acceptance key.

  "Yes?"

  "Jack, it's Steve." Steven Lathorous' image appeared on the display as he spoke. His dark eyes were even darker than usual, and his expression was deeply worried.

  "What is it, Steve?" McBryde asked, concern deepening his own voice as his friend's obvious distress registered.

  "What the fuck have you been doing?" Lathorous half-blurted.

  "Me?" Somehow McBryde put genuine surprise into his voice. He looked at Lathorous for a moment, then grimaced. "What do you mean, what have I been doing?"

  "I just got off a really strange com conversation," Lathorous said. "One with Bardasano."

  "Bardasano?" That name was enough to justify showing at least a little concern, a corner of McBryde's brain told him with lunatic calm, and he let his grimace turn into a frown of mingled confusion and apprehension. "A conversation about what?"

  "About you, dummy!" Lathorous shook his head. "When you offered to take Irvine off my back, it never occurred to me that you'd try to mount some kind of idiot investigation of your own! I mean, you're one of my best friends, Jack, and I think you're one of the smartest people I know, but you haven't worked in the field in years. I may not like the son of a bitch, but if you felt like someone else just had to look into Irvine's reports, you should've brought it to me."

  "Oh, hell," McBryde muttered while his brain raced frantically. "I didn't want to bother you," he went on improvising on the fly. "It didn't seem all that complicated. Besides, I figured I could use the change of pace. Get away from worrying about Simões and all the rest of the crap here at the Center."

  "Oh, yeah? Well, let me tell you, buddy, you're gonna need a better story than 'I got bored pushing chips around' for this one. Unless I miss my guess, Bardasano's on her way to the Center right now to personally rip you a new one for screwing around with procedure this way. I don't think she's feeling very amused, Jack."

  "Shit," McBryde said. Then he gave himself a shake. "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate the heads-up, and I hope none of this splashes on you."

  Lathorous snorted. "The hell with splashing on me, you just get started now on figuring out how to spin this the best way you can when she stalks into your office with blood in her eye."

  "Best advice I've heard yet," McBryde replied with a somewhat forced smile. "Thanks again. Now I'd better go get started on that spinning, I guess. Clear, Steve."

  "Clear," Lathorous replied, and the com blanked.

  * * *

  "Steph, shut up." Anton met the restaurant owner's glare stolidly. "There's no point yelling at me. I'm sorry it came to this, but it did. You have no choice. You either come with us, bringing your daughter, or you'll be dead within a week. So will Nancy."

  She sagged a little. "Dammit, I told you I had no part—and didn't want any part—of Saburo's business."

  "We're not actually Ballroom. But that's no help to you, because from the standpoint of the people running this planet, we're a lot worse. They will kill you, Steph. You and Nancy both—after squeezing you dry even though there's nothing to squeeze. They'll never believe you weren't involved."

  Despairingly, her eyes looked around the kitchen. "But . . . this is all I have. Everything in the world."

  Anton smiled. "Well, as far as that goes, you're in luck. Winning the lottery sort of luck. I'm stinking rich, Steph. My wife is, rather. But Cathy's been donating to good causes since she was a kid. She won't blink at setting you up with a restaurant way better than this one."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure. Now can we please get moving?" He looked at the teenage girl standing wide-eyed against one of the stoves. "We haven't got time for any packing, Nancy. So if there's anything you or your mother desperately need to take with you, it'll have to be something from this kitchen."

  Steph took a ladle, which she claimed was her "lucky ladle." Her daughter Nancy, exhibiting a great deal more in the way of practicality or fighting spirit or both, took the biggest knife she could find. In her small hand, it almost looked like a sword.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  McBryde sat staring at the empty display for two or three heartbeats, and his earlier swirling hollowness was suddenly very still, very calm. He knew what he had to do.

  His hands went back to the computer keyboard, and he called up one of the sequences he'd just installed. It wasn't in the order he'd planned on activating it, but it ought to do the trick, and he bared his teeth as the central computer's memory was adjusted t
o show that Herlander Simões had entered his office with him. Information on the personnel movements in and out of the Center was automatically copied to an off-site stand-alone system. He could have reached the off-site system from his personal terminal here in the Center if he'd wanted to erase the information in it, but that was the last thing he wanted, because that stand-alone system was what was going to cover Simões' escape . . . he hoped. He felt a sudden, deep pang of sorrow as he thought about the sergeant down at the entrance foyer, but he couldn't warn the man without undoing Simões' cover. Besides, despite the weekend, the sergeant wasn't the only other person in the complex with him, and there wasn't anything he could do about any of them now.

  * * *

  This was proving to be an interesting experience, actually. Curiosity was one of Herlander's most prominent traits, and he now realized that he could possibly use that trait to keep his fear under control.

  A climate controlled crate—with top-of-the-line air scrubbers and what looked like an emergency backup air tank—that appeared, from the outside, as if it was carrying nothing more delicate than heavy machinery.

  It was lit inside, too. Very dimly, but it was still light. He'd expected to make the whole trip in darkness, which he hadn't been looking forward to at all.

  The woman looked at her timepiece, for perhaps the hundredth time. "They should be here soon," she muttered. "Well. Maybe another half hour."

  Herlander's eyes, moving around with interest, were arrested by a panel in one of the corners of the crate.

  Good God. Is that scrambling equipment? Where did they get this stuff?

  * * *

  Jack thought about sending a final message to Zachariah, or his parents, or his sisters, but not very hard. Much as he wished he could have explained his reasoning to them, he'd already decided he couldn't risk that. Security was going to be looking at all of them very closely, and their best protection was going to be the fact that he'd never said a single word to any of them about what he planned. Given Security's facilities, it wouldn't take very long to establish that none of them had had a clue or been involved in any way in his actions. And, despite the revulsion he'd come to feel for the Alignment and all it stood for, it did not punish people for someone else's actions. There'd be a stigma, of course, and they'd all be watched carefully, at least for a while, but no one would hold them responsible for what he had done. Sending them any final messages might undermine that immunity, however. Worse, it might start them thinking in the same direction he had, bring them onto the same collision path with the Alignment and everyone around them, and he simply couldn't risk that.