by David Weber
“Neither do I,” Fenrec said, “And I know damned well that Adoula thinks I’m too loyal to the Dynasty to retain my command. I’m going to find myself shuffling chips while some snot-nosed commander who owes Adoula his soul takes my ship. I don’t like that one damned bit, either.”
“We’re all going to be shuffling chips.” Captain Chantal Soheile was the CO of HMS Lancelot. Now she leaned forward and brushed back her dark hair. “Assuming we’re lucky, and we don’t have an ‘accident.’ And the rumors in the Fleet about what’s happening to the Empress—I’ve never seen spacers so angry.”
“Marines, too,” Brailowsky said. “Sir, if you’re going to make a grab for the Empress . . . Home Fleet Marines are on your side.”
“What about Colonel Ricci?” Atilius asked.
“What about him, Sir?” Brailowsky asked, his eyes like flint. “He’s a Defense Headquarters pussy shoved down our throats by the bastards who have the Empress. He’s never had a command higher than a company, and he did a shitty job at that. You think we’re going to follow him if it comes to a dynastic fight, Sir?”
He shook his head, facial muscles tight, and looked at Kjerulf.
“Sir, you really think that jerk Roger is alive?”
“Yes.” Kjerulf shrugged. “Something in the eyes when O’Casey was dropping her hints. And I don’t think O’Casey is the woman who left Old Earth, Sergeant Major. If the Prince has changed as much as she has . . . well, I’m going to be interested to meet him. Roast the fatted calf, indeed.”
“Are we going to?” Soheile asked. “Meet him?”
“I doubt it,” Kjerulf said. “Not before whatever’s going down, anyway. I think they’re getting ready for something, and since they seem to be planning on its happening soon, I’d say around the Imperial Festival.”
“And what are we going to do?” Fenrec asked, leaning forward.
“Nothing. We’re going to do nothing. Except, of course, to make sure the rest of Home Fleet does nothing. Which is going to take some doing.”
“Hell, yes, it is,” Atilius said, throwing up his hands. “We’ve got four carriers! We’re talking about four carriers from three different squadrons taking on six full squadrons!”
“We’re liable to get some help,” Kjerulf said.
“Helmut,” Captain Pavel of the Holbein said. He’d been sitting back, quietly observing.
“Probably,” Kjerulf agreed. “You know how he is.”
“He’s nuts for Alexandra,” Pavel said.
“So are you—which is why you’re here.”
“Takes one to know one,” Pavel said, his face still closed.
“You in?” Kjerulf asked.
“Hell, yes.” Not even the most charitable would have called the expression which finally crossed Pavel’s face a smile. “I figure someone else will get Adoula’s balls before I get there. But I’m still in.”
“I’m in,” Fenrec said. “And my officers will follow me. Regular spacers, too. They’ve heard the rumors.”
“In,” Soheile said. “If Roger doesn’t move—and, frankly, I’d be astonished if he’s changed enough to grow the balls for that—I say we do it ourselves. The Empress is better dead than what’s going on, if the rumors are true.”
“They are,” Kjerulf said bleakly, looking at Atilius. “Corvu?”
“I’ve only got two more years to pension,” Atilius said unhappily. “A desk is looking good about now.” He looked miserable for a second, then straightened his shoulders. “But, yeah, I’m in. All the way. What’s the line about sacred honor?”
“‘Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,’” Pavel said. “That’s what we’re putting down for sure. But this had better be about restoring the Empress, not putting that pissant Roger on the Throne.”
“If any of us survive, we’ll see to that,” Fenrec said. “But how are we going to signal commencement? I assume the idea is to keep the fleet from getting close enough to support Adoula’s forces with kinetics and Marines.”
“Ain’t one damned Marine going to board a shuttle, Sir,” Brailowsky said. “Except to kill Adoula.”
“The Marines are going to have another job, Sergeant Major,” Kjerulf said. “What the Marines are going to do is put down an attempted mutiny against the Throne by their own ships.”
“Damn,” the sergeant major said, shaking his head. “I was afraid it would be something like that.”
“That, and certain duties on the Moon,” Kjerulf said, and looked around at the others’ faces, his own grim. “I don’t know everything Greenberg and that weasel Wallenstein have been up to. I may be chief of staff for the fleet, but they’ve cut me out of the loop on a lot of stuff, especially right here on Moonbase. I’ve got a really bad feeling that Greenberg’s changed the release codes on the offensive launchers, for instance, but there’s no way to check without his knowing I’ve done it. If he has, I’ll be locked out for at least ten to twelve hours while we break the lock. That’s if everything goes well. And it’s also why I need you and your ships in close to the planet.”
“Speaking of Greenberg . . .” Soheile murmured, and Kjerulf smiled thinly.
“I have it on the best of authority that he won’t be a factor. Ever again,” he said.
“Oh, good,” she said softly, showing her teeth.
“But for right now, he definitely is a factor,” Kjerulf continued. “On the other hand, there are a few things I can get away with—routine housekeeping sorts of things—without mentioning them to him, either. Which is how the four of you got detached from your squadrons. I picked you because I figured I knew which way you’d jump, sure, but sliding you and Julius both out of CarRon 13 is also going to make a hole in one of the squadrons Greenberg’s been counting on, Chantal.”
“Umf.” Soheile frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. “Probably the right call,” she agreed. “I was thinking that having the two of us in the middle of his squadron might make La Paz think twice about jumping in on Adoula’s side when he couldn’t be sure who we’d fire on, but you’re going to need us here worse, especially with the way Gianetto’s reinforced Fourteenth.”
“And not knowing which way Twelfth’s going to jump,” Fenrec agreed sourly, and looked at Kjerulf. “Any read on that?”
“No more than you’ve got,” Kjerulf admitted sourly. “The one thing I’m pretty sure of is that Prokorouv’s captains will back him, whatever he decides. And whatever I may think, Gianetto trusted him enough to give him the outer slot covering Old Earth.”
“Yeah, but the one thing Gianetto’s dispositions prove is that as an admiral he’s a freaking wonderful ground pounder,” Laj Pavel pointed out.
“That’s true enough, and one of the few bright points I see,” Kjerulf agreed. “We’re still going to get the piss knocked out of us holding on, even if Prokorouv decides to sit it out with Twelfth. If I can get the launchers on line, Moonbase can cover the outer arc while you people fend Gajelis off, but in the end, they’ll plow us under no matter what unless Helmut gets here on schedule.”
“He will,” Fenrec said, then barked a harsh laugh. “Hell! When was the last time any of us ever saw him miss his timing, however complicated the ops schedule was?”
“There’s always a first time,” Atilius pointed out dryly. “And Murphy always seems to guarantee that it happens at the worst possible time.”
“Granted.” Kjerulf nodded again. “But if I had to pick one admiral in the entire Navy to depend on to get it right, Helmut’s the one, when all’s said. No one ever called him a sociable soul, but no one’s ever questioned his competence, either. And if he comes in where I expect he will, and if Thirteenth is already down fifty percent . . .”
“I see your logic,” Chantal Soheile said, and gave him a tight smile. “You really are killing as many birds per stone as you can, aren’t you?” She grinned at him again, then frowned. “But this is all still way too nebulous to make me what you might call happy. I know a lot of it has to stay that wa
y, under the circumstances, but that brings us back to Julius’ point about the signal to start the op. Was O’Casey even able to set up a channel to tell us when to move?”
“No. But I think we’ll probably get all the signals from Old Earth we’re going to need to know when to start the music. We’ll just ignore the orders we don’t like. The orders I’ve already had cut to move all your ships back to the L-5 Starbase, preparatory for overhaul, should be good long enough to get us through the Festival. If nothing actually happens, then we play things by ear. But that’ll keep you all semidetached from your squadrons at least through the end of the Festival. Not to mention keeping you inside all the ships that aren’t actually in dock. And I’ll make sure all the ships in dock stay in dock.
“When the ball goes up, you four move to hold the orbital positions, and hold off Gajelis—and Prokourov, if it comes to that. You may have to deal with the Moonbase fighter force, if I can’t get them to stand down. God knows I’m going to be trying like hell, as well as trying to get the missile batteries up and talking to all the captains that aren’t bought and paid for by Adoula. All we have to do is hold the orbital positions, far enough out that they can’t get accurate KEW down to the surface, until Helmut gets here. At that point, with Helmut outside and us inside, Adoula’s bastards are either going to surrender or be blown to hell.”
“If we don’t get blown to hell first,” Atilius said.
“Our lives, our fortunes . . .” Pavel said.
“I got it the first time,” Atilius said.
“They’re not going to be at their best, Sir,” Brailowsky said. “Leave that to us. And when the time comes, you can bet we’re going to be having some serious discussions with the Moonbase fighter force, Sirs.” He wasn’t grinning, but it was close.
“Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Sergeant Major,” Soheile said.
“Ma’am, I’ve been pretty damned mad about what was happening on Old Earth,” Brailowsky said soberly. “I’m very happy to have a chance, any chance, to do something about it.”
“Vorica, Golden, Kalorifis, and all the rest of CarRon Fourteen are Adoula’s,” Soheile said, shrugging at the sergeant major’s elan. “Eleventh is going to be split, but I think it’s going to go three-to-one for Adoula. Thirteenth won’t be split anymore—not with me and Julius both here—but there’s a good chance Fifteenth will be. Sixteenth . . . I don’t know. Wu’s been playing her cards as close as Prokourov has. But Brettle, La Paz, and Mahmut are as much Adoula’s as Gajelis, and so are their flag captains. So figure all six of Gajelis’ carriers, two of La Paz’, three—at least—of Brettle’s, and probably at least three of Mahmut’s, from the Fifteenth. That’s fourteen to our four, and all of them are going to fight like hell. That’s damned near four-to-one odds. Even if the rest sit this one out. If Prokourov gets off the decicred and comes in on Adoula’s side, as well, then we are truly screwed if Helmut doesn’t get here right on the dot. And, sorry, Sergeant Major, that’s going to be despite the Marines. There’s only a squad or two on each of those ships.”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Kjerulf said.
“How’s he going to tell the sheep from the goats?” Ferenc asked. “Helmut, that is. Even if he’s fast, we’re going to be pretty mixed up at that point.”
“Simple,” Kjerulf said, grinning ferally. “We’ll just reset our transponders to identify ourselves as the Fatted Calf Squadron.”
Nimashet Despreaux was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a clotheshorse. Certainly not in comparison to her fiancé. She’d grown up on a small farm on one of the border worlds, where hand-me-downs had been the order of the day. A new dress at Yule had been considered a blessing during her childhood, and she’d never really felt any pressure, even after she joined the Marines and had a bit more spending money, to dress up. Uniform took care of any business-related sartorial requirements, and slacks and a ratty sweater were always in style off-duty, in her opinion.
Still, certain appearances had to be maintained under the present circumstances. She had only three “dressy” outfits to wear at the restaurant, and some of the regulars had to have noticed by now that she was cycling through them. So whatever her personal wishes, it was time to get a few more.
She stepped out of the airtaxi on a fifth-story landing stage and paused, frowning, as she considered the mall. She could probably get everything she needed in Sadik’s. She hoped so, anyway. She’d never been one of those odd people who actively enjoyed the task of shopping, and she wanted to get this chore done and out of the way as quickly as possible. Thirty-seven seconds would have been her own preference, but this was the real world, so she’d settle for finishing within no more than an hour.
As she started for the mall, an alarm bell rang suddenly in her head. She was a highly trained bodyguard, and something about the too-casual demeanor of two rather hefty males headed in her general direction was causing a bit of adrenaline to leach into her system.
She glanced behind her as an airvan landed on the stage, and then whipped back around as the heavies she’d already spotted abruptly stopped being “casual.” They moved towards her with sudden purposefulness, as if the airvan’s arrival had been a signal—which it almost certainly had been. But they weren’t quite as perfectly coordinated as they obviously fondly believed they were, and Despreaux flicked out a foot and buried the sole of her sensible, sturdy shoe in the belly of the one on her left. It was a hard enough snap-kick, augmented by both training and Marine muscle-enhancing nanites, that he was probably going to have serious internal injuries. She spun in place and slammed one elbow towards the attacker on the right. Blocked, she stamped down and crushed his instep, then brought her other elbow up, catching his descending jaw and probably giving herself a bone bruise. But both thugs were down—the second one just might have a broken neck; at the very least he was going to have a strained one—and it was time to run like hell.
She never heard the stunner.
“Has anyone seen Shara?” Roger asked, poking his head into the kitchen.
“She was going shopping.” Dobrescu looked up from the reservation list. “She’s not back?”
“No.” Roger pulled out his pad and keyed her number. It beeped three times, and then Despreaux’s new face popped up.
“Shara—” he said.
“Hi, this is Shara Stewart,” the message interrupted. “I’m not available right now, so if you’ll leave a message, I’ll be happy to get back to you.”
“Shara, this is Augustus,” Roger said. “Forgotten we’re working this evening? See you later.”
“Maybe you will,” Ezequiel Chubais said from the doorway, “and maybe you won’t.”
Roger turned the pad off and turned slowly towards the visitor.
“Oh?” he said mildly as his stomach dropped.
“Hello, Ms. Stewart,” a voice said.
Despreaux opened her eyes, then closed them as the light sent splinters of pain through her eyes and directly into her brain.
“I really hate stunner migraines,” she muttered. She moved her arms and sighed. “Okay. I’ve been kidnapped, and since I have little or no value as myself, you’re either planning on rape or using me to get to . . . Augustus.” She opened her eyes and blinked, frowning at the pain in her head. “Right?”
“Unfortunately,” the speaker agreed. He was sitting behind a desk, smiling at her. “I suppose it might be ‘b’ and then ‘a’ if things don’t go as we hope. There are certain . . . attractions to that,” he added, smiling again, his eyes cold.
“So what are you asking? Penalties and fines?”
“Oh, the penalties and fines have gone up,” the man said. “I’m afraid that, what with my costs associated with persuading your gentleman friend, you’d better hope you’re worth a million credits to him.”
“At least,” Despreaux replied lightly. “The problem being that I don’t think he has it on hand as spare cash.”
“I’m sure he can make . . .
arrangements,” Siminov said.
“Not quickly,” Despreaux said angrily. “We’re talking about interstellar transit times, and—”
“—and, in case it’s not clear to you, the money isn’t all mine to distribute,” Roger said angrily.
“Too bad.” Chubais shrugged. “You’ll have the money ready in two days, or, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to send your little friend back. One small piece at the time.”
“I’ve killed people for less than telling me something like that,” Roger said quietly. “More than one. A great many more than one.”
“And if I end up as food for your pets,” Chubais said, his face hard, “then the first piece will be her heart.”
“I doubt it.” Roger’s laugh could have been used to freeze helium. “I suspect she’s worth more to me than you are to your boss.”
“Chop away,” Despreaux said, wiggling her fingers. “I’d prefer anesthetic, but if you’ll just hold a stunner on me and toss me a knife, I’ll take the first finger off right here. I might as well; we don’t have a million credits sitting around at the moment!”
“Well, Mr. Chubais,” Roger stood and gestured to Cord, “care to tell me where to send whatever remains there are?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Chubais glanced over at his guards, and the two men got up. They reached into their coats . . . and dropped as an oaken table, designed to seat six diners comfortably, came down on their heads. Erkum looked up at Roger and waved one false-hand.
“Was that right?” he asked.
“Just right,” Roger said, without even looking at Chubais as he opened the case Cord held out and withdrew the sword. He ran one finger down the edge and turned it to the light. “Cleaning up the mess in here would be a bother. Take him out back.”
Erkum picked up the no longer sneeringly confident mobster by the collar of his thousand-credit jacket and carried him through the restaurant, ignoring his steadily more frantic protests.
