The Thirteenth Man

by J. L. Doty

  Charlie smiled and said, “Somehow I doubt it was to discuss the controversy surrounding rice subsidies, and the trade imbalance that has produced with Terranzalbo.”

  Cahntu laughed. “Quite tedious, isn’t it? But it plays a role in the coming election. Though I must confess your king’s ambitions will play an even greater role.”

  Charlie didn’t want to take that bait. “Which ambitions are you referring to?”

  “His annexation of Aagerbanne, of course, and his alliance with Syndon.”

  Charlie tried to be evasive. “But how does that concern you?”

  Cahntu swirled the whiskey in his glass and looked at it for a moment. “The entire Planetary Council, and most of the general populace of Istanna, fears that his annexation of Aagerbanne is merely the first step toward annexation of all of the independent states.”

  Charlie could see where this was going and wasn’t sure he wanted it to go there. “It’s no secret that Lucius has ambitions of empire. Why come to me?”

  “Because it’s well known that you have no love of the Syndonese and that you openly oppose Lucius’s warlike inclinations. Because Sague speaks highly of you.”

  Sague had been mysterious about this meeting, had refused any details in advance, though he had made a point to say beforehand, “During this meeting, should you have any doubts, please be assured that I have divulged none of your activities.” The man nodded now, to indicate what he’d said earlier was still true.

  Cahntu continued. “And because if Lucius attempts to annex another of the independent states, there’ll be war. And perhaps the most important reason: because Ethallan recommended I speak with you.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but show surprise. “Ethallan?”

  “Yes. She wouldn’t say more than that, but when I expressed our concern to her only a tenday ago, she told me to speak with you.”

  . . . only a tenday ago . . . That was a hint that Cahntu had been in contact with her after she’d gone into exile.

  “Tell me, Your Grace. We have a certain need for small arms, light armor, and explosives, things of that nature. And we have the funds to pay for them. Could you recommend a supplier?”

  Charlie assumed Cahntu intended to feed such supplies to the Aagerbanni resistance, so he spoke cautiously. “Hart & Delorm on Toellan are certainly capable of supplying the materials you require, and can be quite discreet in such matters. I know them personally, am one of their investors, and I’d be happy to have a word with them.”

  Cahntu looked Charlie in the eyes, and Charlie felt as if nothing was hidden from the man. Cahntu said, “That would be kind of you, Your Grace.”

  “And what of you?” Charlie asked. “Should it come to war, is Istanna prepared to fight? Can Istanna field troops and arms?” At that moment Charlie had an idea he’d never considered. “Might Istanna be prepared to enter into a coalition to oppose Lucius and Goutain?”

  Cahntu smiled. “Three questions, Your Grace. Three answers. Yes. Yes. And it would depend upon who would be our partners in this coalition.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Partnerships don’t work in war. A coalition would need one leader.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. And I think we know who that leader should be, though I’ve only recently met him and don’t know him well. But ­people who do know him speak highly of him, ­people whom I trust. And I will admit that my first impression of him is good.”

  Charlie stood politely when Sague ushered Cahntu out of the room. It occurred to him he should find a way to surreptitiously contact the leaders of the other independent states, try the same proposal on them. He decided to broach the subject with Sague on the way to the spaceport. When the Istannan returned he was preparing to leave.

  “No, Your Grace. You mustn’t leave yet. You have several more meetings.”

  Clearly Sague had had a similar thought—­and the foresight to act on it. So Charlie watched as Sague then ushered in the ambassador from Finalsa, followed by the ambassadors from Toellan, Terranzalbo, Allison’s Cluster, and the Scorpo Systems. Charlie met with each of them separately, and with each the conversation was much the same as it had been with Cahntu. Clearly, they’d spoken with one another, if not in a large group then in smaller meetings like these. Charlie made a point of indirectly asking each of them how many capital ships they could supply to a coalition effort, if such a coalition were to be formed, and if war did come. Two ships from one, four or five from another—­not a lot, but they could each supply a few. And while he didn’t have exact numbers, the total added up to something like twenty or thirty capital ships, plus assorted cruisers, frigates, and destroyers. If he could add a dozen ships of his own, with the element of surprise they could defeat Lucius and Goutain.

  He was a soldier, not a politician, but he realized it was time to start thinking like one. Time to be proactive. Time to decide what needed doing, then see that it was done. For the first time he thought he saw a way to win this war that was not really a war. But it would be dangerous, for if any hint or rumor of his complicity were to make it back to the king or any of the Ten, it would be disastrous. Any coalition he formed would fall apart without him, and they’d know that. Goutain or Nadama wouldn’t hesitate to pay him a visit at Starfall and drop a few salvos of large warheads on the place, then claim ignorance of the whole incident afterward. He’d be radioactive vapor, and they’d be victorious conquerors.

  It occurred to him that there was one piece of the equation missing: the mysterious Kinathin home world, where aging breeds were reputed to retire. For all he knew they didn’t have any ships, were just a planet full of peaceful old pensioners. He’d still like to put the question to them, so he tried one last time to broach the subject with Add and Ell. As always, they ignored him and changed the subject.

  But with or without the breeds—­and even with all of these meetings and plans running through his head—­it still wasn’t clear to him whether he could actually put such a coalition together. And in the end, he wasn’t sure if this had been a wasted trip or not.

  CHAPTER 21

  COUNTERFEIT LEADER

  Soon, a fair number of ships would be docking at Andyne-­Borregga to take advantage of its facilities. There would be spacers on shore leave wandering its corridors, and without some form of entertainment, that could become a big problem. As Momma Toofat had said any number of times, “Spacers want girls, booze, gambling, and food, or they get bored. And bored spacers are bad for everyone.” So Charlie stopped at Tachaann and cut a deal with Momma to be entertainment coordinator on Andyne-­Borregga. She’d open a place or two there herself, and arrange for some of her peers to do the same. She didn’t mind the competition because, as entertainment coordinator, she would be allowed to collect franchise fees from the other proprietors. Charlie left Tachaann with one less thing to worry about.

  In his small, private cabin on The Headsman, Charlie racked his brains to determine if he’d done anything different the last time he’d gone down to the blind corridor. Darmczek had given him a junior officer’s berth, since Charlie refused to displace one of the senior officers. It had a small fold-­down desk, and Charlie sat there replaying over and over again the last time he’d gone down to the blind corridor. He hadn’t been fully dressed, had just thrown a bathrobe over his underwear, and that was certainly different because previously he’d always been fully clothed. But why would the corridor not respond because of a bathrobe? And it wasn’t as if there was something special about the clothing he’d worn; he was certain he’d worn something different almost every time he’d gone down there. So why had the corridor not responded last time?

  Darmczek’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Your Grace, we’re about ten minutes out from down-­transition.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I’ll be right up.”

  Charlie stood, checked his image in a small mirror, and adjusted his tunic and the wiring
for the visual distortion field generator embedded in it. He switched the field on and his image in the mirror changed to that of a middle-­aged man, dark hair with gray at the temples, brown eyes, thin tight lips, unsmiling. They’d worked carefully on this image and the persona that would accompany it: Edwin Chevard, a fictitious name, man, and personality.

  Charlie switched the distortion field off and his own face reappeared. He left the small cabin, marched down the hall, and climbed the ladder to the cramped confines of The Headsman’s bridge. Oddly enough, he was more comfortable in a man-­of-­war where space was doled out sparingly. Darmczek had reserved one of the redundant navigation consoles for Charlie, and as he sat down and strapped in he felt that odd tingle in the back of his mind that told him they’d just down-­transited.

  Out of habit, Charlie watched the navigational information build on his screen as shipboard instruments gathered data about nearby space. “Clear to a hundred thousand kilometers, sir,” the young navigator seated next to Charlie said.

  “Drones out,” Darmczek barked, and The Headsman’s hull thrummed as she launched her navigational drones. With the drones providing a wider baseline and increased resolution, the navigational data built even more rapidly. No ships in their immediate vicinity, but a ­couple of transition wakes inbound at three light-­years.

  “Sir, we’ve got an incoming signal from a ship at about one light-­year,” the com tech advised.

  “Pass it to me,” Darmczek said, and as always his words sounded more like a growl.

  Charlie had to lean slightly to one side to see Darmczek through the maze of consoles and instrument clusters. He saw Darmczek’s lips move as he spoke through his implants, then he heard Darmczek’s voice in his own implants. “Your Grace, the Lady Ethallan.”

  Ethallan’s face appeared on Charlie’s screen. Unlike the last time they’d met, a certain strain had etched crow’s feet about the corners of her eyes now. She nodded politely. “Your Grace, I’ve arranged the meeting as you requested, though my colleagues are distrustful. And, as you requested, I kept your identity to myself.”

  “Thank you. You know full well that if the king or any of the Ten hear even a rumor of my complicity with FAR, I’m a dead man.”

  “I fully understand, Your Grace. They’re here to meet Edwin Chevard, an old friend and business associate of mine. Though my man Kierson has been with me long enough to know all of my long-­term associates, so he’s somewhat suspicious of the Chevard identity. But I’m confident he doesn’t suspect a disguise, and I’ve dropped some veiled hints that we were lovers when much younger. In any case, he’s loyal and I’m confident he’ll be discreet. I do hope you have some good news. The resistance is losing its vigor through attrition and lack of supplies.”

  “I too hope I bring good news,” he said. “We’ve spotted two transition wakes incoming. Are those your colleagues?”

  “I believe so, but we won’t know for certain until they down-­transit.”

  Ethallan signed off and the waiting began. Another hour passed before the two ships down-­transited, and like Ethallan and The Headsman, they chose a position about a half light-­year short of the rendezvous coordinates. Caution was the word of the day.

  They detected a number of encrypted transmissions between Ethallan and the two new arrivals, then Ethallan contacted The Headsman and confirmed that the two ships were her colleagues. All four ships then carefully executed a short transition hop to within a hundred million kilometers of each other. Further maneuvering brought them to within one million kilometers. Again, paranoid caution ruled all.

  After tracking the emission signatures on the three ships, Darmczek was satisfied The Headsman could outgun them. Of course, that was obvious to them as well, and they’d probably noted that she emitted a characteristic Syndonese emission profile, all of which would make the two newcomers quite nervous. Over Darmczek’s objections, Charlie agreed to shuttle over to Ethallan’s destroyer-­class yacht where they’d all meet.

  As Charlie stepped out of The Headsman’s gunboat into the small hangar bay of her yacht, she stood nearby to greet him, Kierson standing beside her, two men and a woman standing behind her eyeing him suspiciously. The visual distortion field projected Edwin Chevard’s image across Charlie’s features, and a programmable vocal implant disguised his voice.

  “Edwin,” Ethallan said, playing her role beautifully. “My dear Edwin, it’s been too long.”

  Since Edwin Chevard, to all appearances, was of an age with Ethallan, she had come up with the idea that Chevard should flirt lightly with her. So Charlie bowed deeply, kissed her hand as she proffered it, straightened, and said, “All you need do is marry me, dear lady, and I’ll cling to your side like your most devoted servant.”

  She laughed and Charlie found her incredibly attractive in that moment. “You’re as shameless as always. Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  She turned, and with her hand resting lightly on Charlie’s arm, escorted him to the woman and two men. Ethallan had provided pictures and briefed him carefully on the three. As she introduced each of them, Charlie reviewed what he’d learned about them.

  Colonel Therman Tarlo was tall and handsome and cut quite the dashing figure in his military uniform, complete with gold-­braided epaulettes. It was all polish, though, since he was a mediocre military officer at best, put in charge of the resistance’s modest combat forces out of necessity when he was much better suited to a peacetime administrative job. But apparently Tarlo was quite aware of his own limitations and let his subordinates, who were better strategists, tell him what to do. Charlie could respect that.

  Sandeman Dirkas was a short, fat man, the top of his partially bald head covered in a fine down of hair, his brown business suit rumpled and unkempt. He was the politician, could be quite a firebrand, but more in a calculating way as opposed to a fanatic. His greatest contribution was that he knew how to speak to crowds. Ethallan said he hid behind the image of a rabble-­rouser, but was actually more pragmatic when getting the job done, and an expert at cutting backroom deals.

  Last was Thea Somal, a frumpy, middle-­aged woman with motherly, grayish-­brown hair styled in an unflattering bob. Like the others, her looks belied her; she was, in fact, a savvy businesswoman who had amassed a considerable fortune through her own efforts, and was responsible for much of the resistance’s financing. And while much of her support stemmed from the fact that Lucius’s annexation of Aagerbanne was seriously hurting her financial interests, it was a motive Charlie could trust.

  They shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries before Ethallan led them to her study—­a small, private office that made exorbitant use of space on what was actually a destroyer disguised as a yacht. While Ethallan served them snifters of brandy, Somal asked Charlie, “So, Mr. Chevard, how long have you known Lady Ethallan?”

  Charlie smiled at her. “We were close friends when we were much younger, when we were students. Unfortunately, our various responsibilities have meant that our friendship must endure great distances and almost continuous separation.”

  Dirkas asked gruffly, “You’re Toellani?”

  Charlie sipped his brandy and shook his head. “I was born in the Realm, but my father had some difficulty with one of Lucius’s ambitions, so for many years now I’ve called Toellan home.”

  Tarlo sat down in an expensive looking antique chair. “I thought I heard the Realm in your voice. And as to difficulty with Lucius’s ambitions, we do seem to share that in common.”

  Charlie smiled, and purposefully made it an unpleasant smile. “Yes, the enemy-­of-­mine-­enemy thing.”

  “Is that why we’re here?” Dirkas asked. “Because we share a common enemy?”

  Charlie shrugged. “In a sense. Let’s just say that Lucius’s newest ambition is causing considerable difficulty in certain interests of mine.”

  Ethallan had told Cha
rlie that such a position would resonate nicely with Somal. “So you think we can find common cause?” the businesswoman asked.

  Charlie sipped his brandy. “In some areas, yes. I can’t provide capital ships or combat troops, not directly. I can’t act that openly. On the other hand I’ve begun a small commercial venture in the Borreggan system that you might find advantageous.”

  “Borreggan system,” Dirkas said. “Never heard of it.” He looked to the others one at a time, and each shrugged or shook their head to indicate that they too had never heard of the system.

  Charlie continued. “I’m not surprised. Borregga is a gas giant, with no habitable planets, a bit out of the way, but still conveniently accessible.”

  Somal asked, “And what commercial venture do you have there that’ll be of interest to us?”

  Charlie smiled at her. “I’m a significant investor in a space station there named Andyne, orbiting the primary. It’s a large space station, with a shipyard fully capable of supplying, outfitting, and repairing capital ships. Including armaments.”

  Tarlo’s eyes focused on Charlie as he continued. “Andyne-­Borregga is a free port, and its operations staff will not discriminate against any ship because of type or registry . . . although Syndonese ships might find themselves a bit put off by our hospitality,” he added with a smile. The others smiled back for a moment, but the mood turned somber again. Charlie continued.

  “I’ve heard that you’ve been having difficulty of late. That you have ships playing a role in certain disputes, but they can’t put into a normal port for supply and repairs. I’ve heard that your efforts are faltering because of that, and some of you fear you may not be able to continue the struggle. Let me assure you, those ships will be welcome at Andyne-­Borregga.”