“Oh? And why? She gave me the appointment we both wanted me to have, didn’t she?”
“That was not as easy as you may think. It took a lot of persuading. A lot of advocacy. Deirdre doesn’t like you.”
“I don’t know of many people she does like.”
“I could only convince her because your deputy—”
“That puppy!”
“—is knowledgeable about the functioning of your department. He’s also loyal—as far as anyone can be, these days. ‘If it weren’t for Bertingas’s—those were her exact words at the time. So I wouldn’t push her too hard, if I were you. She only trusts you because you haven’t raised your head enough to draw her suspicions. Yet.”
“Then, since I am so ineffectual, I suggest you do your job and get her on the right side of Spile. Or it will be worse for all of us, one day.”
Regis Sallee had reached the corner onto Martingale Avenue and turned right. Behind him, without a word, his control must have turned left. The man’s steps faded into the night.
Chapter 11
Taddeuz Bertingas: TRACERS
“I have to get this information back to Gemini Base,” Mora said, the minute her backside was plunked down in the little red aircar. She had been holding her peace, with some difficulty, on their walk up the hill from Choora Maas’ cavelike collection of huts.
“When Daddy learns the H.M. not only tried to kidnap me but have also been building up their own private navy, he’ll call down a first strike from high orbit. Pow! Push that island—what’s it called? Batavia?—right under the water. Let them even think about arming a bunch of merchant hulls against Central Fleet. It’s certainly a breach of the Pact. And if it’s not, there must be something in Fleet regs, probably under ‘civilian uprisings.’ One way or another, Daddy will nail them.”
“Do you want to slow that down a bit?” Tad asked. Her talk, her attitude, was making him uncomfortable—and a little angry.
He punched the starter sequence and brought the car’s fans up to speed. When they had settled and synched, he gave his AID codes for the shortest route to Meyerbeer and sat back. The car rose with a surge and nosed around to the west.
“What do you mean? This is an emergency!”
“No, it isn’t—it’s a rumor. A story told to us by an alien—one whose species does not have the best political odor right now, either. I’ll admit that Maas seems to be a sincere and even—ah—saintly character. However, his motives for making mischief with the Haiken Maru are pretty obvious. Do you think we want to go and incinerate a private trading installation on his say-so?”
“He corroborates the data Betty uncovered.”
“If you choose to see it that way.”
“I tell you they’re selling warships to Governor Spider. You ask where a commercial trader would be getting warships to sell. Maas says they’re building—or at least retrofitting—them on the premises . . . Now you’re saying it only adds up if you’ve got an active imagination? How much of a map do you need, fella?”
“Simply . . .” Bertingas began. “Fairly—legally, we must give the Pact some kind of proof before taking direct military action. Has anyone seen these warships? Does anyone have an accounting of missing commercial hulls? Has there been an attack anywhere?”
“You’d wait until they use the ships?”
“I’d wait until there was an investigation, a verified finding of criminal action, and a specification of charges before dropping on them ‘from high orbit.’ You people in the Fleet have the Central Center viewpoint: that everything happening out here in the clusters is a sort of barbarian uprising. Cauterize first and ask questions later. Well, the Haiken Maru, for all their faults, are the underpinning of the economy in this cluster. You chop them off here, and something will fall over there.”
“Sounds like you’re defending them—after two assassination attempts. Or three, counting the riot in Chinatown.”
“No, not defending. It’s just that—who’s involved? Who’s working as H.M.’s agent? Who’s neutral? Who’s an innocent bystander? Deirdre Sallee is supposed to be uninvolved, and above local connections, but can we be sure? She could have been turned five minutes after landing on Palaccio—or five years before. So, in this atmosphere, getting an investigation started against the biggest conglomerate in four clusters, is going to be a delicate matter. We want to be sure of the political winds.”
“Oh brother! At that rate, the H.M.’ll be picking their teeth with you before you lift a finger.”
“That’s as may be. The alternatives could be worse. Especially if we show up in Meyerbeer with a lot of incriminating stories and tell them to the wrong people. For instance, would you trust taking this to Captain Thwaite?”
“Ouch!” Mora said. “I’d forgotten about him. I’d have to get back to Gemini without going through him, wouldn’t I?”
“Can you do that?”
“With a private yacht . . . maybe. Betty has the base approach codes. Does your department have courier ships, service vehicles, mail capsules, anything like that?”
“Sorry, it’s all done with light beams and hyperwaves. Anything above the atmosphere, we go to the Cluster Command for help with transit and hardware.”
“Well, do you know anyone with a yacht?”
“Sure—Valence Elidor owns one. The governor has the Aurora. I don’t think either one would lend it to me for a weekend jaunt and no questions asked.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Well, just don’t go making open charges. Follow my lead on this—okay?”
“Okay . . . I’ll give you five minutes’ warning when I plan to break it. All right?”
“Ten minutes? At least.”
“Make it seven.”
“Uh—deal.”
They crossed the city’s perimeter. Air Control electronically tagged them and put them in the appropriate traffic slots.
“What are we going to do in Meyerbeer?” she asked. “Still running and dodging?”
“No, that’s got no future. Instead, I’m taking us to the one place Haiken Maru can’t touch us. Should have gone there first.”
“Where’s that?”
For answer, Bertingas put the aircar’s nose over and dove toward the pyramid of Government Block. He pulled up a thousand feet out and on a level with the 123rd floor landing stage.
“So—‘smile and salute,’ ” he told his AID.
“Right, boss!” The machine made electronic arrangements with the stage’s valet system.
“We’re going in there? Dressed like this?” Mora protested, plucking at the pants leg of her dusty, stained, worn, borrowed clothing. She pushed at her hair, which hadn’t seen a brush or a comb in twenty-four hours. She dabbed at her face, peering into a bright piece of chrome for a mirror.
“You look fine,” Tad said, with too much of a smile.
She gave him a look full of death daggers but stopped fussing.
They set down on the narrow ledge and climbed out. Mora gasped at the height and grabbed for his arm. Bertingas led her to the drop tube.
At the 99th floor, they were met by Gina Rinaldi and Patty Firkin. Gina looked as cool and graceful, elegant and poised as always. “Metal doesn’t get messy” flashed through Bertingas’ mind. Beside her, Firkin was showing signs of wear: a white bandage across her forehead and her left arm in a sling. Not bad, considering her wild ride on the front of a dying dragon. Which she had killed with her own hands.
“Mora, this is Gina Rinaldi, my secretary. Firkin you’ve met—and had a shot at. Gina, this is Mora Koskiusko, daughter to our admiral. She needs a place to clean up and some fresh clothing. You look about the same size . . . You have a dress and things here you could loan her, don’t you?”
“Ahh—” Gina blushed slightly, as much as Deoorti skin can color. “I’ll think of something, Tad.” She took Mora’s arm and turned away, then turned back.
“By the way, we’re starting to get a stream of recruits at two of the bases
you asked me to set up. Someone has to go out, inspect, and settle them. Since it’s your project, I volunteered you. And the Director said he wanted to see you the minute you surfaced. He knows you’re here, too. You are to go right up. His orders.”
“Oh my! Then, I’ll need a fresh uniform, a shave, and a five-minute update. Can you—?”
“Ladies first, Sir.” Gina smiled sweetly and took Mora off down the hallway.
“Can’t you dress yourself?” Firkin rumbled at him.
“Used to be more fun the other way,” he grumbled and headed for his office. Patty trailed him, and he noted she limped as well.
Inside of six minutes, he was ready to face Selwin Praise. He rode the drop tube up alone, walked across the security bay with its young Building Services cerberus, and threaded the Maze to the Director’s office. Praise’s secretary, still the doubtful man, announced Bertingas and ushered him into the presence.
The D.ofC. was studying a holoprojection on his desk. The diffuser axis was aligned with Tad, so he saw only a blur of colors which could be anything from architect’s plans to naked ladies. Praise tore his attention away as if it were the latter. His eyes, like small agates, focused across the desk on Bertingas.
“I still do not have. On my desk. A report on security conditions. Signed by one Taddeuz Bertingas. Who seems to be among the missing. Around here. More than among the active-duty employees. I ask myself: what has he been doing with his time? Screwing the hired help? Do you know, Bertingas?”
“In the field, Sir. I’ve been making those contacts you gave me—for the recruits.”
“You were gone two days? Without leaving word? On that assignment?” Praise harrumphed. “Should have taken you two hours. Or twenty minutes on a lightbeam.”
“I went in person.”
“Your physical self? How charming. I’m sure your alien friends appreciated the—um—politeness of that.”
“They didn’t seem to be the sort to own Shadow Boxes.”
“This is a backwater cluster . . . Well, how successful were you in your negotiations?”
“I’ve got fifteen hundred mixed aliens coming in. Down payment, as it were, on a promise of three thousand. Those are from your contact ‘Glanville,’ who is really strange—”
“Fifteen hun—! That’s all? What about Maas?”
“He had some reservations. He seemed unsure about our good faith toward alien species. He asked for ‘a sign.’ ”
“What kind of sign?”
“He . . . ah . . . didn’t say. Not in so many words.”
Now why, Bertingas asked himself, did he resist telling Selwin Praise about the Haiken Maru war fleet, Batavia, and Choora Maas’ demand for an attack on the installation? For that matter, why did Tad keep silent about the fact that Maas, to whom Praise had personally directed him, was a Cernian—a species which Praise had personally proscribed on this project?
The answer to both questions was that, of all the people in Meyerbeer, Tad distrusted the new D.ofC. most. His internal radar could not penetrate the man. And Selwin Praise reeked of secret alliances and midnight promises.
“ . . . well, you’ll think of something,” Praise was saying. “Although I must say I’m disappointed. I send you to recruit thousands, and you come back with mere hundreds.”
“Yes, Sir, but those hundreds are coming into the training bases even as we speak. The numbers will grow. We couldn’t handle thousands of recruits right now, anyway. No capacity at the bases.”
“Hmmm. So you say.” Praise was studying his desktop. “Well. I’ve revised my estimate of our need. We’ll want 30,000 troops under arms inside of two weeks.” He raised his eyes to Bertingas, in challenge, and they fairly gleamed.
“Thirty thou—! That’s almost impossible.” And it’s almost, Tad’s internal censor whispered, twice the manpower of the Cluster Command. A virtual private army.
“You’re making the right promises?” Praise asked.
“More than enough. Some I don’t think I can keep.”
“Don’t let that stop you. Get the bodies. Get them trained.”
“May one inquire why the sudden need?”
“One may not. However, under a confidence, I would say we are on the verge of a crisis situation. The death of His Excellency the high secretary has thrown into motion forces that may not be stopped, short of direct military action . . . If one were to ask.”
“I see.”
“You do not see. I did not say. However, you will leave this office, Bertingas, with the imperative need of this Department for skilled troops burning in your mind. Won’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you will go at once to inspect this base of yours, at . . .” Praise paused to study something in the holoprojection. “At Cairn Hollow, in the Uplands. You’ll begin training your recruits. Won’t you?”
“Of course, Sir.”
Praise waited a three beat, his eyes still down, then looked up. “Then what are you still doing here? Get a move on!”
“Right away, Sir.” Tad nodded once, vigorously, turned on his heel, and double-timed across the carpet for the door.
It wasn’t until he was field-falling in the drop tube that Bertingas started to question Praise’s whole performance: the D.ofC. had at first doubted the number and land of Tad’s recruits, yet he had the name of their first base, Cairn Hollow, literally at his fingertips. What was going on?
Mora was waiting in the foyer of his floor, dressed in an ankle-length sheath of tiny silver scales backed by russet satin. She made a small pirouette. “What do you think?”
It was hardly becoming to her blonde hair, her pale skin, or the time of day. Tad recognized the dress and knew whose coloring and accents it did become. Was that truly the only clothing his secretary could find for their guest? Or was Gina sending a subtle message?
“It looks wonderful. But where we’re going . . .”
“Where’s that?”
“Above the Uplands. To meet the first of Glanville’s troops.”
“Then this is perfect! Gina is so thoughtful.”
“Eh? That’s a ball gown. Perhaps for an evening at Chez Dorsey, but—”
“It’s also overlapping plate armor with a Rockwell C rating of 58, a superconducting coating, and a compressible underlayer. You could shoot me point blank with the Schlicter and just raise a bruise. And the coating drains off the charge from a high-voltage field. It will take anything but a direct plasma burst.”
“Too bad it doesn’t have a hood.”
“Rolled into the neckline,” she said, demonstrating. “Patty wishes we had one in your size.”
“Not my color. Anyway, where is Patty?”
“Checking in with somebody, she said. Ah, here she comes.” Mora raised her voice to the approaching Firkin. “Tad says we’re going above the Uplands.”
“To the training base, right?” the colonel growled.
“Yes,” Tad nodded. “How did you know?”
“It’s all over this floor. ‘War footing,’ someone remarked to me. A stranger, yet. In the latrines, for Kali’s sweet sake. If this army of yours is supposed to be a secret, your security stinks.”
“A secret? Well, I suppose so . . .”
“You don’t know?”
“The Director didn’t mention it.”
“Trimurti!” the woman sighed.
“When do we leave?” Mora asked.
“Right away,” he said. “I’d better tell Gina.”
“Gone,” Firkin said.
“Where?”
“Just gone. Didn’t say. Didn’t look happy, though.”
“Why are you in such a rush?” Mora asked him. “We just got here, and you—we, both of us—have business to discuss, if you remember.” She winked at him. “Perhaps with your Director, if now’s the time—”
“No!” Tad barked. “Now is not a good time to bother Selwin Praise.”
“Did Praise order this inspection?” Firkin asked quickly.
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“Yes.”
“He’s really keeping you busy. Out of the office for—what? Two days now?—on one pretext or another. I wonder what he’s trying to hide?”
Bertingas looked at her, shook his head slightly, but didn’t say anything. To make his meaning clear, he moved his eyes around the four walls, pantomimed looking up and down the drop shaft.
Firkin closed her eyes. “Right. Security. Well, how do we get to the Uplands?”
“Car’s waiting.” He tapped the AID at his belt.
“Not that little red job we bought?” Mora asked. She unconsciously smoothed the dress over her thighs, clearly remembering the high lip on its door. Or perhaps she was thinking of color clashes with her new gown.
“No, I have a staff car. Big enough for all of us. Shall we go?” He made way for them to step into the tube.
Mora Koskiusko pointed her toes and rose like a silver arrow. Firkin followed, her toes dangling. Tad brought up the rear.
In the bulky, black Department car, hovering just beyond the landing stage’s apron of approach, Bertingas linked up his AID and gave directions for Cairn Hollow. The car wheeled and started north immediately.
“You know how far that is, Boss?” the machine asked.
“Over the Palisades, in the—”
“I know that. It’s 2,298 klicks.”
“Good! Take about nine hours, time for dinner and a catnap. I’m overdue on my sleep cycle. That should get us to the base about two hours after midnight, and—”
“Two hours after never,” it said. “The range of this car is about 1,500 klicks, on full cells with spares in the outboard cradles. Which you don’t have. We’re gonna spend a long night in the woods.”
Firkin put her chin forward. “Rinaldi ordered a waystation to be installed.”
“Give the damn thing its coordinates,” Tad said wearily, “and let’s hustle butt. Okay?”
The drone of the fans put him under long before the car could serve up its prepared meal. He slept through the refueling and didn’t open his eyes until, in utter darkness with only the stars above them, the car descended on the base perimeter at Cairn Hollow.
By its lights and beacons, the training base was laid out in a pentagram: five wedges in a compact figure, separated by broad avenues lit with the green glare of sodium brights. The landing strip was at the center, with the entire land width of the base to shield vulnerable landings and takeoffs from snipers and rocket attacks. It was a good configuration for wartime security, except this wasn’t a war and it only meant heavy troop buses passing over everyone’s head at all hours.
An Honorable Defense Book 1 Crisis of Empire Page 13
