by David Weber
"And you're indispensable!" Eleanora snapped back at him. "You're not going off on a Galahad mission, Roger. Yes, you'd probably be the best for the job, but you're not getting in the line of fire. Get that through your head."
"Try to stop me," Roger said coldly.
"We're on a tight schedule, here," Catrone pointed out, "and we don't have the personnel, associated with the main mission, or the time, to go rescue your girlfriend."
"We are not going to leave her to be chopped into pieces," Roger said, coming to his feet with dangerous grace.
"No, we're not," Catrone agreed calmly. "But you are essential for gaining entry to the Palace, and you can't be in two places at one time. If you walk out of this room, I'm walking out of the mission, and so is everyone I'm bringing to the table. I can handle this; you don't have to get any nearer. Do you know what I do for a living?"
"Raise horses," Roger said, "and draw your munificent pension."
"And train tac-teams," Catrone said angrily. "You can't get a weapon anywhere near Siminov's offices; I can. And he's got legal bodyguards that are armed; a sword isn't going to do you a damned bit of good!"
"You might be surprised," Roger said quietly.
"Maybe." Catrone shrugged. "I've seen you operate. But, as I said, let the professionals handle this—and I know the professionals."
"Ms. Subianto," Roger said, "I imagine it's pretty clear what's going on here."
"It was clear before our first meeting," Subianto said. "I wasn't aware it was this far along, but it was obvious what was going on. To me at least. I'm fairly sure no one else has connected the dots."
"We could use your help. Especially on current intelligence on movements and on details of Imperial City police security."
"I hate politics." Subianto shook her head angrily. "Why can't all you damned politicians solve your problems in council?"
"I wish it could be so," Roger said. "But it isn't. And I hate politics, too, probably more than you do. I tried to avoid them as hard as I could, but... some are born to them, some force their way into them, and some are forced into them. In your case, the last. In mine, the first and last. Do you know what they're doing to my mother?" he finished angrily.
"Yes," she said unhappily. "That was why I decided to ignore what was going on when you slid me that nice little 'fatted calf' code phrase. But that doesn't mean I want to help you. Do you know what sort of a nightmare this is going to cause in Imperial City? In the Empire?"
"Yes, I do. And I also know some of Adoula's plans that you don't. But I also know what there is of you in the public record, and what Temu said about you—and that you're an honorable person. What's happening is wrong. It's bad for the Empire, and it's going to get worse, not better, and you know damned well which side you should be on!"
"No, I don't," Subianto said, "because I don't know that what you're doing is better for the Empire."
"Here we go again," Kosutic groaned. "Look, forget everything you think you know about Master Rog unless you're prepared to puke up your guts for about four hours."
"What does that mean?" Tebic asked.
"She's right," Catrone said. "Ms. Subianto, you know something about me?"
"I know quite a bit about you, Sergeant Major," Subianto said dryly. "Counter-Intel considers keeping an eye on the Empress' Own to be just good sense. You hear too many secrets to not be considered a security risk."
"Then trust my judgment," Catrone said. "And Sergeant Major Kosutic's. Roger isn't the worthless shit he was when he left."
"Why, thank you, Sergeant Major." Roger actually managed a chuckle. "Nicely... put."
"I'm starting to get that impression myself," Subianto said dryly, "although I'm not so sure he hasn't gone too far the other way. Almost cutting a suspect's arm off to get him to talk doesn't make me particularly thrilled about his judgment."
"You're going to need to block out four hours some time, then," Roger said. "After that, you'll understand what I consider 'appropriate'—and why. And that brings us back to Nimashet. Probably the only reason I didn't cut off the bastard's arm was Cord's very cogent point that Nimashet would not approve. Even to save her," he added bleakly.
"I need to speak to this IBI agent you have attached to you," Subianto said equivocally. "I don't recognize his name."
"And there's no record of him in the files," Tebic said. "He's a nonperson, as far as we're concerned."
"He's at the restaurant at the moment," Roger said. "We need to get this operation to pull Despreaux worked out, though. I'll get him headed over right away."
"I'll call my people," Catrone said. "Good thing we've got the datanet wired from here."
"This will not be a legal operation," Eleanora pointed out.
"I know. I'm not saying they'll be happy to do it; I said they would do it. I thought about bringing them in on the main op, but... Well, I trust them, but not that far. Besides, they're not combat troops—they're tac-teams. There's a fine line, but it's real. For this, though, they're perfect."
"Jin," Roger said, as the IBI agent stepped into the meeting room at the warehouse. "You recognize Ms. Subianto, and this is Mr. Tebic."
"Ma'am." Jin came to something like attention.
"Mr. Jin," Subianto replied with a nod.
"There's some question about your ID, Temu," Roger said, raising an eyebrow. "You don't appear to be listed in Mr. Tebic's records. Anything you'd care to tell me?"
"I was deep cover on Marduk," Jin said uneasily. "Kyoko Pedza's department. I got a coded message to go into the cold when this supposed coup occurred. I've sent two counter messages, requesting contact, but no response. Either Assistant Director Pedza has gone to ground, or he's dead. I would estimate the latter."
"So would I," Subianto sighed. "Which angers me. Kyoko and I have been good friends for many years. He was one of my first field supervisors."
"Assistant Director Pedza managed to dump lots of his files before he disappeared," Tebic pointed out. "It's not unlikely that Jin's was one of them."
"And Jin has been... an extremely loyal agent," Roger said. "He started covering for us long before we ever even met, and he was instrumental in getting us the weapons we needed to take the spaceport on Marduk. Capable, too; he cracked the datanet on the Saint ship in really remarkable time."
"Saint ship?" Subianto asked.
"It would take far too long to explain even a fraction of our story, Ms. Subianto. The point is that Jin has been an extremely loyal aide. Loyal, I think, to the Empire first. He's been assisting me because he sees it as his duty to the Empire."
"Yes, Sir," Jin said. "I'm afraid I'm not one of your Companions, Your Highness—only an agent assisting in what I see as a legitimate operation under Imperial law against a conspiracy of traitors."
"But," Subianto said, still frowning, "while I know a great many of our operatives, at least by name, I'm sorry to say that I don't recognize you at all."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Ma'am," Jin said politely.
"What was your mission?"
"Internal security monitoring," Jin replied. "Keeping an eye on what the local governor was doing. I'd been compiling a report I was pretty sure would have landed him in prison, at the very least. But that's not an issue anymore."
"No, it isn't," Roger said. "Based on the evidence against him, I gave him a field court-martial and had him executed."
"That was a little high-handed," Subianto said, arching her eyebrows. "I don't believe even the Heir Primus has the authority to arbitrarily order executions, however justified."
"It wasn't 'arbitrary,'" Roger said a trifle coldly. "You did hear me use the phrase 'court-martial,' didn't you? I'm also a colonel of Marines, who happened to be on detached—very detached—duty. I discovered evidence of treason while operating under field conditions in which reference to headquarters was not, in my estimation, possible. It's covered, Ms. Subianto. Every 'i' dotted and every 't' crossed."
He held Subianto's gaze for perhaps two hear
tbeats. Then the IBI agent's eyes fell. It wasn't a surrender, so much as an acknowledgment... and possibly a decision not to cross swords over a clearly secondary issue.
"Mr. Jin," she said instead, focusing on the other agent, "I'm sorry to say that Marduk is a fairly minor planet. Not exactly a critical, high-priority assignment, whatever the governor may have been up to. So I have to ask this—what is your IS rating?"
Jin cleared his throat and shrugged.
"Twelve," he said.
"TWELVE?" Roger stared at him. "Twelve?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Jin admitted. Twelve was the lowest Imperial Security rating possible for a field agent of the IBI.
"Agent Jin," Subianto said gently, "how many assignments have you had in the field?"
There was an extended pause, and then Jin swallowed.
"Marduk was my first solo field assignment, Ma'am," he said, gazing at the wall six centimeters above her head.
"Holy Christ," Roger muttered. "In that case, Ms. Subianto, I would say Agent Jin is one hell of a credit to your Academy!"
"And it also explains why I don't recognize your name." Subianto smiled faintly. "On the other hand, I have to agree with the Prince, Agent Jin. You've done well. Very well."
"Thank you, Ma'am," Jin sighed. "You understand..."
"I do," Subianto said, smiling openly now. "And, I'm sorry, but you're still officially in the cold until we can figure out some way to bring you in again."
"Oh, I think we can do something about that in about two days," Roger said. "God willing. And if nothing goes drastically wrong."
"Jesus, look at the signature on that van!" the monitor tech said. "Hey, Sergeant Gunnar, look at this!"
"Imperial permit IFF," the supervisor replied.
"I know, but... geez, that's some serious firepower."
The supervisor frowned and used her toot to dial the van.
"Vehicle Mike-Lima-Echo-Three-Five-Niner-Six, approaching Imperial City northeast, this is ImpCity PD Perimeter Security," she said. "Request nature of mission and destination."
* * *
Trey tapped the van's communicator and smiled at the female officer in the ICPD uniform who appeared in the HUD.
"Hey, thought you'd be calling," he said. "Firecat, LLC, Trey Jacobi. We're doing a demo for the Imperial Festival. Check your records."
The supervisor frowned and looked inward with the expression of someone communing with her toot, then nodded.
"Got it," she said. "You can understand why we were wondering. You're radiating wide enough they're probably picking you up at Moonbase."
"Not a problem." Trey chuckled. "Happens all the time."
"Mind if I come by for the demo?" Gunnar asked.
"Not at all. Monday, 9 a.m., Imperial City Combat Range. They say there's going to be a big crowd, so I'd get there early."
"Can I use your name to get a good seat?"
"Absolutely," Trey replied. "Take care," he added as he cut the connection.
"Be an even better demo tomorrow," Bill said from the passenger's seat. "And not at the range."
"Couldn't exactly invite her to that," Dave replied from the back. "Today, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to demonstrate how to smear a group of heavily armed mobsters and retreat before the police arrive," he added in a fast, high, weird voice. "Failure to properly plan and conduct the operation will result in severe penalties," he added in a deep, somber baritone. "If any of the members of your organization are captured, or killed, the department will disavow all knowledge of your existence. This van will self-destruct in five seconds."
"Could somebody please shut him up?" Clovis said from the seat next to Dave. "Before we're one short on the mission?"
"Well!" Dave said in a squeaky, teenaged female voice. "I don't think that's a very nice thing to say! I swear, some of the dates I agree to go on..."
"I'm gonna kill him," Clovis muttered "I swear it. This time, he's gonna bite it."
"B-b-but Cloooovis," Dave whined, "I thought you were my friend!"
The airvan pulled up in front of a hastily rented warehouse several blocks from the Greenbrier facility, then floated inside as the doors slid open. It eased to a stop in the middle of the empty warehouse, and Roger watched as Catrone's "friends" unloaded.
The driver looked remarkably like Roger had before his bod-mod. Shorter—he was probably 170 centimeters—but with long blond hair that was slightly curly and fell to the middle of his back, and a chiseled, handsome face. He moved with the robotic stride of a well-trained fighter, light on his feet, and had hugely muscled forearms.
"Trey Jacobi," he said, crossing to where Roger waited beside Catrone.
"Trey's a very good general operator," Catrone said, "and a former local magistrate. He's also our defense lawyer, so watch him."
"Who's my newest client?" Trey asked, holding out his hand to Roger.
"This is Mr. Chung," Catrone replied. "He's... a good friend. A very important person to me. He'd probably handle this on his own, but he has a pressing business engagement tomorrow."
The individual who climbed out of the driver's side rear door was a huge moose of a man, with close-cropped hair. He strode over like a soldier and stopped, coming to parade rest.
"Dave Watson," Catrone said. "He's a reserve officer with the San-Angeles PD."
"Pleased to meet you." Dave stuck out his hand, shook Roger's, and then resumed his position of parade rest, his face stern and sober.
"This is Bill Copectra," Catrone continued, as a short, stocky man came around the front of the van. "He does electronics."
"Hey, Tomcat," Bill said. "You're going to owe us one very goddammed big one for this. If you had a daughter, that would be the down payment."
"I know," Catrone replied, shaking his head.
"I had a hot date for this weekend, too," Bill continued.
"You've always got a date," the last man said. He was a bit taller than Bill, and wider, with oaklike shoulders, short-cut black hair, and a wide, flat face. He walked with a rolling stride which suggested to Roger either a sailor or someone who spent a lot of time on civanback. Make that horseback, this being Old Earth.
"This is Clovis Oyler," Catrone said. "Deputy officer with the Ogala department. Entry."
"That's usually my spot," Roger said, nodding as he shook Oyler's hand. "Charge?"
"Usually a modified bead gun," Oyler replied. "You can't stay on the door with a charge. And there's not many doors that won't go down with a blast from a twelve-millimeter bead."
"With a twelve-millimeter, you're not going to have many shots left," Roger pointed out.
"If you need more then three or four, you're in the wrong room," Oyler answered, as if explaining to a child.
"Tac-teams." Roger looked at Catrone and nodded. "Not combat soldiers. For your general information, Mr. Oyler, I usually do the entry in a tac-suit or powered armor and ride the entry charge through. Sometime we'll see who's faster," he added with a grin.
"Told you there was a difference," Catrone said. "And Clovis' technique does tend to leave more people alive and unmangled on the other side of the door."
He shrugged, then turned back to Copectra.
"Bill, we've got an address. We need a surveillance setup. Dave will emplace—taps and external wire. We need a schematic on the building and a count on the hostiles. Clovis, while Bill and Dave take care of that, you do weapons prep. Trey, you do initial layout."
"What are you going to be doing?" Trey asked with a frown. Catrone normally took layout himself.
"I've got another operation to work on," Catrone replied. "I'll be here for the brief, and on the op."
"What's the other op?" Trey asked. "I'm asking as your counsel, here, you understand."
"One of the kind where, if we need an attorney, he won't do us much good," Roger replied.
* * *
"Prince Jackson," General Gianetto said over the secure com link, "we have a problem."
"What?" Adoula respon
ded. "Or, rather, what now?"
"Something's going on in Home Fleet. There've been a lot of rumors about what's happening in the Palace, some of them closer to reality than I like. I think your security isn't the best, Prince Jackson."
"It's as good as it can get," Adoula said. "But rumors aren't a problem."
"They are when the Navy gets this stirred up," Gianetto noted. "But this is more than just rumors. CID picked up a rumor about a mutiny brewing among the Marines. They're planning something—something around the time of the Imperial Festival. And I don't like the codename one bit. It's 'Fatted Calf.'"
Adoula paused and shook his head.
"Something from the Bible?" he asked incredulously. "You want me to worry about a Marine mutiny based on the Bible?"
"It's from the parable of the prodigal son, Your Highness," Gianetto said angrily. "Prodigal son. You roast the fatted calf when the prodigal son returns."
"Roger's dead," Adoula said flatly. "You arranged that death, General."
"I know. And if he'd survived, he should have turned up somewhere within the first few weeks after his 'accident.' But it looks like somebody believes he's alive."
"Prince Roger is dead," Adoula repeated. "And even if he weren't, so what? Do you think that that airhead could have staged a countercoup? That anyone would have followed him? For God's sake, General, he was New Madrid's son! No wonder he was an idiot. What was the phrase you used about one of the officers I suggested? He couldn't have led a platoon of Marines into a brothel."
"The same can't be said for Armand Pahner," Gianetto replied. "And Pahner would fight for the Empress, not Roger. Roger would just be the figurehead. And I'm telling you, something is going down. The Associations are stirring, the Marines are contemplating mutiny, and Helmut is moving somewhere. We have a serious situation here."
"So what are you doing about it?" Adoula demanded.
"What's the most critical point we have to secure?"
"The Empress," Adoula said. "And myself."
"Okay," Gianetto replied. "I'll beef up security around Imperial City. Where I'll get it from is going to be an interesting question, since we don't have that many ground forces we know are loyal. But I'll figure it out. Beef up security around the Palace, as well. As for you, you need to be moving the day of the Festival."
