by Tom Kratman
Oh, I want. But it would still be rape. So, no. I know what that’s like and you deserve much better. Just in case the cabin girl and sometimes brevetted officer didn’t understand, Marguerite shook her head most reluctantly.
“Just toss me a towel, please,” the high admiral slurred. “I can clean up after myself. Then you go to bed.” Before I weaken and change my mind. Because you make me very weak . . . very . . .
Esmeralda left the light on in her narrow bunkroom next to the high admiral’s. Lying on her back, with a light sheet and comforting blanket pulled up to just over her breasts, she looked over at and thought about the connecting door that led from her tiny cabin to the high admiral’s. She realized that the reason for the door and the proximity was precisely so that cabin boys and girls could be of greatest use—which had nothing to do with pouring drinks or cleaning spills—to whoever held the office for the time. She felt, as she had felt before, tremendous gratitude toward Wallenstein for not putting her to use as the high admiral had every right to put her to use.
And that’s what makes what I am planning—if I can be so bold as to call it a plan—so difficult, that you, beautiful High Admiral Dear, saved me from the chili pot and have since treated me with every kindness. You are so much better than the system you support, how can you support it?
Esmeralda pulled out from under her mattress the small book the recruiting sergeant had given her in Aserri and began to read from where she had left off. Somehow, without ever having been to Old Earth, the writers of the book, Dr. Mendoza and his wife, still saw the Castro-Nyeres in all their wickedness, still saw the slave pens of Razona Market, still saw the hearts of young girls being cut out on the Ara Pacis. The names they didn’t get, of course, but the trends they saw clearly.
And there are larger factors, High Admiral, than you and me and chili pots, neo-Azteca, and orthodox druids. You represent an evil system, or perhaps a good system gone bad, and I will fight that when I can and destroy it, or help to, if I am able.
Hotel Edward’s Palace, Island of Teixeira, Lusitania, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Marguerite had really liked the place the last time, not least because, with cliffs on three sides it was easier for the couple of guards she felt safe bringing to watch the ins and outs.
This conference was much smaller than the one earlier. It was smaller by one Gallic general, and his staff, and it was smaller by any number of political and bureaucratic minions. It had Marguerite, though, and her charming AdC, Lieutenant, JG, Miranda. It also had the Five Permanent Members, the FPMs, of the Tauran Union Security Council. These were from Gaul, Anglia, Sachsen, Castile, and Tuscany. These had the power to order Janier. These had the power to remove him if he disobeyed those orders. And the Gaul, Monsieur Gaymard, had the influence, if not the official power, to have Janier run out of the Army of Gaul.
The ministers were there to listen, not to argue. While some of their constituents may have been interested—indeed, probably were interested—in peace, prosperity, fairness, and any number of other feel-good words, this crew . . .
They want power, time to enjoy it in, and youth to enjoy certain aspects of it with, thought Wallenstein. I can work with that.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wallenstein began, more politely than was strictly necessary, “I’m afraid we have a terrible problem. And I’m afraid you’re going to have to fix it. Or . . . ah, but wait. Before we get to serious matters, we have a birthday girl among us. Esmeralda, my dear, which birthday is this?”
“Why, my eighty-seventh, High Admiral,” the young girl lied, just as she’d been coached. Not that she couldn’t have kept the same looks, of course; Wallenstein had and she was more than twice that age. But there was a freshness and loveliness about Esmeralda that Marguerite really wanted to rub the Taurans’ noses in.
“Ah. Well happy eighty-seventh, my dear. And in honor of your birthday, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. I’m sure the representative of the Gallic Republic”—Marguerite’s voice took on a nasty tone—“whose general has betrayed us”—and rose in volume and viciousness—“and led to the ruination of all our plans”—then quieted—“would be glad to pour the water. Run along, dear.”
“Yes, High Admiral.”
Esmeralda was armed only with her little book from the recruiting sergeant in Aserri, Santa Josefina. But the book had an address in it, plus several phone numbers and an e-mail address. But how, how in a world so thoroughly documented, and from a star fleet even more thoroughly documented, was she to get a message to someone in the Balboan forces who could make use of her willingness to serve the cause of freedom? She didn’t even think she had the right names. In fact, the only name to which she could put a number or a digital address was Sergeant Riza-Rivera back in Aserri, and that from the business card he’d slipped into the book.
Everything cost, she knew, except back on Old Earth where everything cost unless you were a member of the elite, in which case a number of things came free. But what would it cost to call Santa Josefina from here? The only money she had were the remnants of the per diem she’d been given when acting as the high admiral’s messenger girl pretending to be an emissary. Was that enough?
Twice she went up to the desk and twice she skirted back in fear. The first time was over the cost, when she had no clue what the cost would be. The second time . . .
What if the Peace Fleet is monitoring communications? What if they hear me trying to betray them? It’ll be out the air lock for sure. And that’s worse than being a bowl of chili. At least the neo-Azteca would have cut my throat first for that. And my body, even if in the form of shit, would have stayed home. But pushed out to suffocate, freeze, and then explode . . . slowly? Ugh. And my body never to return? Would God bother to even look for such a little insignificant thing as me, in the vastness of space, on the wrong side of the bridge between the stars? Floating forever . . . no one ever knowing or caring . . .
Pushing back on and defeating that nascent attack of panic was one of the tougher things Esmeralda had ever had to do. But once she had, she found that the next step, going to the desk clerk, was easier than it had been. She walked up and asked, “Is there a way I can call Santa Josefina from here? The only money I have is this.” She held out about a thousand drachma’s worth of Josefinan currency.
“You’re a member of the Miranda party, aren’t you, miss?” the desk clerk said. Wallenstein was too well a name for the high admiral to book on her own. For that matter, the five members of the Tauran Union Security Council were too well known. Thus the name of little Esmeralda Miranda had acquired a debt she probably could never pay off.
“I’m Esmeralda Miranda, yes,” she replied.
“Ma’am,” said the clerk, “your calls are free with your suite.”
“Oh . . . oh, I didn’t know.”
The clerk smiled and shook his head. These super rich types were just so out of touch.
“If you have the number in Santa Josefina,” the desk clerk said, “I’d be glad to put the call through for you, ma’am.” His finger pointed at some booths with sliding doors. “You can take the call over there. I’ll have it sent direct to number seven.”
“Thank you,” Esmeralda said.
“And . . . ummm . . . the number, ma’am?”
She read it off from the card. Then she had a horrible thought. The clerk will call and wait until he had a connection. Then the sergeant is going to answer with, “Legion del Cid, Recruiting Station Cedral Multiplex Shopping Mall.” And that will raise too many questions.
“Can you talk me through dialing?” she asked. “I’m just not used to these but . . .”
“No need to explain, ma’am. Surely I can.”
“Recruiting Sergeant Riza-Rivera,” came the answer. “Legion del Cid, Recruiting Station Cedral Multiplex Shopping Mall.”
Damn, can I call them or what? thought the girl.
“Sergeant,” she said, “my name is Esmeralda Miranda. I don’t think you’ll remember me but I c
ame into your office and you gave me a little book.”
“Well,” said Riza-Rivera, “I can only think of one girl . . . short, brown, don’t get a swelled head but really pretty . . .” Though my first guess when I saw her was “lesbian.”
“Thanks, that was probably me. But there’s something you don’t know.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m from Old Earth. I’m with the Peace Fleet. And I want to . . . what’s the word? Oh, yes, I remember. I want to defect.”
“Miss, this is way above my pay grade,” the sergeant said instantly. “Way, WAY above. But if you will give me where you are staying, and a way to contact you, I’ll do whatever I can figure out how to get you in touch with someone who matters. And how long will you be there, miss? That matters, too, I suspect. And . . . ummm . . . crap. Okay, whoever finds you will say ‘foxtrot lima.’ You answer with ‘alpha tango.’ Oh, and your room number. If I have to call you back I’ll say, miss, this is Mr. Riva, the desk clerk. I’ll try not to do that, though.”
The sergeant was thinking frantically. Opportunities like this didn’t come along once in a hundred years, he knew. “Ummm . . . ummm . . . spend as much time as you can wandering public areas but alone. Put a flower, preferably red, in your hair if you think you can get away with it. And that’s all I can think of for now, miss. If it weren’t for the spy movies I couldn’t have gotten this far.”
Turonensis, Republic of Gaul, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Khalid wasn’t living in Turonensis, but he passed through often enough, and was known by Fernandez to pass through often enough, that Fernandez contacted him immediately upon receipt of the message—after much filtration—from Sergeant Riza-Rivera.
Khalid didn’t have a photograph of the girl. Riza-Rivera had already checked and found that the security cameras in the recruiting station had long since erased their old recordings. Fernandez had sent the sergeant to an old acquaintance in Aserri, a forensic artist who did work for the Aserri Police Department. The artist, using the more old-fashioned sketching technique, aided by facial design software, was able to produce a reasonable likeness of the girl in a few hours.
As with many things, the fact that nobody could really be sure just what the Peace Fleet was capable of meant that the composite couldn’t be faxed to Fernandez’s office in the plain, nor did a mere recruiting station and sometimes mobilization coordination point have the requisite encryption capability. It had to be hand carried by the sergeant to Fifth Mountain Tercio headquarters, in Valle de las Lunas, then encrypted and faxed to Fernandez’s office, then immediately transmitted to Khalid, who did have decryption capability, along with the order to proceed to Teixeira, Lusitania, to contact the girl at the Hotel Edward’s Palace.
“Khalid,” Fernandez had written, “you’re my best man for direct action, but I’ve never had you do anything remotely like this. Still, of what I have who might be able to do this you are the closest.
“The most I hope for is that you can contact the girl, confirm she is who she says she is, and somehow arrange a way for her to contact us. Do that, and you’ll have earned your pay for the next month.”
I’ll have earned my pay for the next fucking year if I get you a mole inside the Peace Fleet, thought the assassin, flying to the island on an airplane rather than a cheaper but slower airship. But even the girl was unable to say how long she’d be there. Time was a wasting asset.
The airship touched down without accident. The island lived off of tourism these days, so there was no shortage of a taxi to take Khalid to the hotel. The hotel had been a problem, largely because they had no cheap, unostentatious rooms. Khalid had at least been able to wrestle a small suite from them, where they had tried to saddle him with a large.
In the plane and in the taxi, he alternated his time with studying the composite drawing of the girl and trying to figure out a way for her to keep in contact once contacted by him.
The best he’d come up with was a dead drop e-mail account, with only the draft folder being used, and that only if she came back to Terra Nova again. In the airport at Turonensis he picked up half a dozen novels, in the sure and certain expectation that the very same half dozen would be available at the airport on Teixeira. He wrote a single number inside the cover, one through six, in each of the ones he’d bought in the former airport, then repeated those for the ones he purchased in the second.
“Best I can do, under the circumstances.”
Hotel Edward’s Palace, Island of Teixeira, Lusitania, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Clever girl, though Khalid, clever sergeant, too.
The picture was fair, but less than perfect. Even so the large red flower in her hair, that was a dead giveaway. And she was alone, sitting in the hotel restaurant, reading a magazine. She wore a very attractive ecru silk dress, empire waisted, with a thin, red, tubular trim.
Khalid, always a mix of caution and boldness, tossed caution to the winds. He walked to her table as if he belonged there, sat down, and said, “Foxtrot . . . lima.”
“Alpha tango,” she replied. Even though she’d rehearsed this meeting in her mind fifty times, the knowledge that she had just come so much closer to her goal set her voice to quivering and her heart to pounding.
“Wonderful,” said Khalid. “If anyone you know comes over, or even gets in a position to see us, say, ‘How dare you sit down with me uninvited? Get away.’ Got it?”
“I think so.”
“How long do you have here?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “My high admiral—”
“What?”
“My high admiral.”
“There is only one high admiral.”
“Yes, I know. I’m her cabin girl.”
“Oh, dear God.” Now it was Khalid whose heart pounded. “I don’t think Fernandez has a clue who he sent me to meet.” In most unKhalidlike fashion, the assassin threw his head back, softly crying, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Do I just rush you out of here for debriefing or send you back for whatever purpose Fernandez might think of. Crap. Crap. Double crap!”
Being flustered was not something that came easily to Khalid. He recovered and said, “No matter. Keep going. Your high admiral . . . ?”
“She’s beating the locals into submission, the Tauran Union Security Council. I think they’re about ready to fold. So I could be leaving within a few hours.”
“All right,” Khalid said. “Do you have bags sufficient to hold these?” He pulled one of the two sets of novels he’d picked up out of a bag and set them on the table.
“Sure. I overpacked a little, because we didn’t know how long this would take. I can leave something behind if I must.”
“Okay,” he began to explain. “These books are novels, fictional writings. Inside the cover of each I have written a number. I have a matching set I’ll send to my chief. For you to compose a message, you need to write the number I have written, then find the word you want. You write the page number, the line number, and the number of the word in the line. You can mix and match across books, if necessary, so long as you put down what book it’s coming from.” He opened one of the books and showed her how to do it.
“Then you underline or cross out that word so it cannot be used again. If we see that word’s number used again, for the same book, we will assume you are compromised and probably just cut you off.
“There are better codes,” he explained, apologetically, “much simpler and quicker ones, but none I could come up with quickly, that looked so innocent.
“It may happen that there is no word. In that case, use the same system, but only count the first letter of the words you find and spell out the word you want that way. The message will make no sense so we—my side—will automatically look for the first letter.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Now . . . I suppose there is no way for you to send a message from the ship you are on?” he asked.
“The Spirit of Peace? No. Or nothing that wouldn’t b
e too suspicious.”
“Okay . . . I wish . . .” Khalid let the thought trail off. He knew, or at least, guessed, that Fernandez had some kind of limited intelligence source on the ship, some kind of bug. If he knew what it was and where it was he could have her go and simply talk. But he didn’t know so . . . “The less said about that the better.”
He passed over an e-mail account, a password, and some hastily written instructions. “When you get back here, if you do, get to a computer and access that. My chief will have more clear guidance in the folder labeled ‘draft.’ Do you understand all this?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think so.”
“Clever girl!” Khalid enthused. “And now, to protect you, I am going to disappear. My suite number is Five-two-seven. I will hang around a couple of days and if I get better guidance I will contact you again, if I can. If not, good luck and contact us if you are able. God go with you, child.”
Later that afternoon, an exhausted High Admiral Wallenstein joined Esmeralda in their suite.
“Honey,” said the high admiral, “I need to sleep for a few hours. Please make the arrangements to get us back aboard ship.”
“How did the . . . negotiation session go, High Admiral?”
“The bloody Gaul gets his marching orders tomorrow and either obeys or is relieved by the end of the local month.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Pity not! The Army gave
Freedom to a timid slave.
In which freedom did [s]he find
Strength of body, will and mind.
—Kipling, Epitaphs of the War
Hovercraft Ramps, Port of Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Centurion Rafael Franco, assigned Tercio Gorgidas and seconded to Training Maniple, Tercio Amazona, watched as an elderly woman showed her pass then drove her van past the security gate and into a parking spot. One of the Tercio Socrates types, he thought, the ones who are going to provide dependent care in their homes for the girls’ children.
