by David Weber
“Apparently,” Shiflett said. “And contrary to how Nabaum’s reading it.” She gave a little shrug. “Nice plan, really. If Townsend hadn’t stumbled on them, and they’d gotten the bodies out of there, the murders would have just gone down as unsolved disappearances.”
“And even if they did get caught, there’s a complete disconnect between them and the actual killer,” Marcello agreed. “As an extra bonus, by making it look like the order came from off-planet, it could take months or years for the Cascans to back-track the message and pin down his identity.”
“If they even had the resources to try, Ma’am,” Townsend added.
“Gimmicking the Havenite packet that way couldn’t have been easy, though,” Marcello pointed out.
“He’s already screwed with a maximum-security prison’s recording system,” Shiflett pointed out. “This can’t be any harder.”
“Excuse me, Sir,” Townsend said. “But now that we know that Mr. Smiley might be involved, shouldn’t we ask the Quechua City Police to pick him up?”
“Afraid you haven’t given them much to go on,” Shiflett said.
“What about the picture?” Townsend asked. “Redko got you and the cops a picture, didn’t he?”
“What are you talking about?” Shiflett demanded.
“I pointed him to the killer and told him to get a picture,” Townsend said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “He didn’t—? Oh, no. Damn it.”
Shiflett had already keyed her uni-link. “Lieutenant Nabaum,” she ordered, her eyes smoldering. “When was this, Townsend?”
“Just before I got grabbed by the clean-up crew,” Townsend said between clenched teeth. “I sent them in pairs—he should have had someone with him.”
“His locator’s not registering,” Marcello muttered, glowering at his own uni-link. He shot a look at Shiflett, still waiting impatiently for Nabaum to answer, then turned to Lisa. “TO, get our people out there,” he ordered. “Get them on the streets and have them start a search. Starting at—” he gestured to Townsend.
“Barclay Street and Marsala Avenue,” Townsend supplied.
“Starting there,” Marcello said. “Have them look everywhere a human being could be hidden. Tell them they’re looking for EW Tech Redko.” His lips tightened. “Or,” he added quietly, “his body.”
* * *
It took the Damocles crew and, eventually, most of the Quechua City police force a solid hour to find Redko. He and a Spacer Second Class named Aj Krit were taped to the back wall of a dumpster in a service alley four blocks away from the corner where Chomps had left them, with a couple of trash bags strategically placed to hide them from view.
To Chomps’s surprise and infinite relief, they were alive.
According to the petty officer who found them, Redko swore for three solid minutes after they got the tape off his mouth while they were untaping him from the dumpster. By the time Chomps and Commander Donnelly arrived he had apparently run out of curses.
But from the look in his eye Chomps was pretty sure he was ready to do a repeat performance.
“About freaking time,” he bit out as he spotted Townsend. His eyes flicked to Donnelly, and Chomps could see him revising his vocabulary now that a senior officer was present. “I was starting to think you were going to let me get a private tour of the Quechua City garbage sorter. What the hell kept you?”
“It got complicated,” Chomps said, some vocabulary of his own very much wanting to come out. “What the hell happened?”
“What do you think happened?” Redko said bitterly. “He got the drop on us, that’s what. We never even saw him coming.”
“And how exactly was there even a drop he could get?” Chomps demanded. “You were supposed to take a picture. One. From a safe distance.”
“Well, I couldn’t, could I?” Redko shot back. “He never gave me a clear shot. So we figured we’d follow him, just for a minute or so, and try to get at least a solid profile on him.” He nodded back over his shoulder at the dumpster. “Only next thing I knew, we were wrapped up like bargain-priced mummies and plastered against the back of that thing. Plastered solid—I couldn’t even kick the sides to try to get someone’s attention.”
“Consider yourself lucky you’re able to complain about it,” Donnelly advised tersely. “We think the man you were tailing killed eight other men.”
“I was thinking—” Redko broke off. “Did you say eight, Ma’am? But—” he looked back at Chomps.
“Eight,” Chomps confirmed. “The two shots we heard were the last of a string. As Commander Donnelly says, consider yourself lucky.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Redko said, in a considerably more subdued voice. “Well…did you get him?”
“Not yet,” Donnelly said. “But the police have an alert out, and Commodore Henderson has the CDF checking all shuttle flights he might have been able to catch.”
“They’ll get him,” Chomps promised. “In the meantime…” He looked at Donnelly.
She nodded. “The hospital for a quick check, then to the police station for a debriefing.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Chomps gestured. “Come on, Reddy. I’ll help you to the car.”
* * *
The diplomatic code from Ulobo’s tablet worked like a charm. Quechua City Space Control let Llyn leave orbit, their instructions and confirmations filled with the sort of stiff formal phrases that must have come straight from the official rule file. By the time of their second, much less serene call, he’d built up a twenty-one-second time delay’s worth of distance.
It made the conversation even more awkward than it otherwise would have been.
“Diplomatic courier ship Score Settler, this is Quechua City Control,” a harsh voice came over the bridge speaker. “Commodore Henderson of the Cascan Defense Force requests that you abort your trip and return immediately to Casca.”
Llyn touched the mike control. “Quechua City Control, this is Score Settler,” he replied. “Captain Ulobo speaking. My apologies, but I’m afraid it will be impossible to accede to your request. General Khetha has received a message requesting him to come at once to Zuckerman, and is determined that that obligation be met.”
He counted out the seconds of the time-delay; and right on target—
“Captain Ulobo, this is not a request,” a new, even harsher voice came on. “You are ordered to return to orbit immediately.”
Or what? Llyn thought back with a tight smile. He’d carefully checked the locations of the CDF’s ships—all four of them—on his way out of orbit, and had confirmed that none of them was in position to come after him.
But there was nothing to be gained by pointing that out. Besides, gloating wasn’t Llyn’s style. “I’m sorry, Quechua City Control, but that simply isn’t possible,” he said. “If all goes well, General Khetha will be back in three months. He’ll be happy to sit down with Commodore Henderson then.”
“Captain Ulobo, I don’t think you fully understand the situation,” the man said. “If you refuse to comply, you will be brought back by force.”
Llyn opened his mouth to reply—
And stopped as one of the displays belatedly caught his eye. It was an ID map of everything in orbit around Casca, all the ships that might be close enough to head off after him. He’d taken all of the CDF warships into account, and dismissed them as any threat.
But he’d forgotten about the Manticore destroyer. And if they started bringing up their impellers right now…
Quickly, he ran the numbers. It would be close—it would be damn close. But if they really, really wanted him, they could indeed have him.
And as if in response to that sudden revelation— “Score Settler, this is Captain Marcello of the Royal Manticoran Naval Ship Damocles,” a new voice came from the speaker. “The Cascan Defense Force has authorized me to pursue and detain or destroy you. Bring your ship around and return to Casca or we will do so.”
Llyn cursed under his breath. He had just one option, and it wa
sn’t a pretty one. Keying for impeller control, he ran his acceleration and inertial compensator to ninety-five percent.
It wasn’t something he did lightly. It wasn’t something anyone did lightly. Especially not someone whose impeller room was running on full automatic, with no one watching to make sure nothing went wrong. Eighty-five percent was considered the upper limit for safe travel, and virtually no one except warships in combat ever crossed that line.
But Llyn needed more of a lead if he was to stay ahead of Damocles and her missiles. An hour at ninety-five percent should do the trick. Even if Marcello decided to push his own ship to the same limit.
And if he did…well, then it would be a race.
* * *
“CIC confirms, Captain,” Lieutenant Nikkelsen’s voice came from Marcello’s uni-link. “Score Settler is running at ninety-five percent maximum acceleration.”
Lisa shivered. Ninety-five percent. Whoever was aboard really didn’t want anyone catching him.
“Well, that pretty much confirms it’s our boy, doesn’t it?” Commodore Henderson said sourly.
“I would say so, Commodore,” Marcello said, just as sourly, as they all watched the departing icon on the CDF Command Center display. “I was wishing mightily that we hadn’t taken those two beta nodes off-line for inspection last night, but I see now that it wouldn’t really have mattered whether we had or not.”
“Not unless you were willing to red-line your systems, too,” Henderson agreed. “Which I assume you weren’t?”
“I wouldn’t have been, no,” Marcello said. “But seeing that he was willing might have changed my mind.” He gave a little snort. “One more big fat zero for our collection.”
At the rear of the group, Townsend cleared his throat. “If I may, Sir?” he said tentatively. “We also know now that the murderer hasn’t got a tap into high-level CDF files.”
“How do you figure that?” Shiflett asked, frowning.
“Because if he did, he’d have known Damocles’s forward ring was down and she couldn’t give chase,” Townsend said. “I assume that maintenance plan was logged into the Cascans’ system?”
“It was,” Marcello confirmed, nodding. “It also means he hasn’t got an ally tucked in among CDF personnel who could have found that out for him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I suppose that’s worth something,” Henderson said.
“It’s worth a lot,” Marcello said. “A traitor in your midst could have made for serious future trouble.”
“Agreed,” Henderson said. “On the other hand, a traitor would have been a lead we might have been able to ferret out. This way, we’ve again got zero.”
“Yes,” Marcello murmured. “Whoever this guy is, he’s damn smooth.” He gazed at the display another moment, then turned to Townsend. “And now, I think it’s time we headed back to the ship,” he continued, a slight edge to his voice. “There’s apparently some new reading I have to do.”
Lisa looked at Townsend, too. The big Sphinxian’s face was a little pale, but there was no hint of panic in his expression. Whatever these supposed secret orders were, she had no doubt they really did exist.
What Marcello would choose to do with them, of course, was another matter. Orders were orders, but long-distance ones like this usually included a degree of latitude that ship’s commanders could invoke in case of unforeseen circumstances.
“Of course,” Henderson said. “We’ll continue monitoring him from down here, and Chachani will continue bringing up her impellers, just in case he has a malfunction before he hits the hyper limit. Unless that happens, though, I’m afraid he’s clear and gone.”
“Yes,” Marcello murmured. “I wonder what a megalomaniac like Khetha had—or knew—that could possibly make this whole thing worth this much effort.”
Lisa swallowed. This much effort, and this many lives.
It was a big galaxy, but she couldn’t quite rid herself of the suspicion that the Haven Sector might someday find that out.
It was unlikely to be an enjoyable experience.
* * *
The timer Llyn had set ran to zero…and with that, there was no longer any even theoretical possibility that the Cascans, Manticorans, or Manticoran missiles could catch him.
With a huff of relief, he quickly ran the impellers back to the standard eighty-five percent. He’d half expected Damocles to try anyway, running her own impellers as high as she had to in order to burn off Llyn’s lead.
But Captain Marcello hadn’t been that crazy. And really, who could blame him? He shouldn’t be expected to risk his ship and crew that way, certainly not when all they could even suspect Llyn of was an assault on those two nosy Manticorans he’d caught following him.
And so, for want of a little courage, the captain of Damocles had forfeited his chance to save his worlds.
And the real pity was that he would never know it.
CHAPTER NINE
Lisa Donnelly had called from the shuttle landing field to let Travis know that she was ready to come pick up her dog, and to make sure he would be home.
Travis was home, was ready, and had nervously paced exactly one hundred seventy-four circuits around the room by the time the door chime finally rang.
To his relief, the anticipated awkwardness didn’t materialize. Lisa walked in with a smile and a casual greeting, and then dropped into a crouch and whistled for Crumpets. By the time the Scottie came racing from the bedroom on her little legs, and she and Lisa had had their joyous reunion, any hint of discomfort had long since passed.
And if it hadn’t, Lisa’s next smile would have done the trick. “Thank you so much, Travis,” she said, standing up again with the dog resting in the crook of her arm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“It was no trouble,” Travis assured her. “Crumpets is a great little houseguest.”
“Well, good guest or not, I owe you one,” Lisa said. “Thanks again.”
“No problem,” Travis said, bracing himself. “Um…you might not know, just coming in today, but there’s supposed to be an announcement from the Palace in about—” he checked his chrono “—an hour. If you leave now, you may not get home in time to watch it live. You’re welcome to wait and watch it here if you’d like.”
“That’s all right—if I don’t make it I can listen in the car,” Lisa said. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing,” Travis assured her, trying to keep the sudden desperation out of his voice. He’d been preparing for this moment—and thinking of ways to prolong it—practically since Damocles left Manticoran orbit. “I’ve got some strawberries fresh from this morning’s farmers’ market, and I was going to make some chocolate fondue to dip them in. And you can tell me about Casca while we wait for the broadcast.”
“Oh, Casca was a trip and a half,” Lisa said soberly.
“In a good way, or a bad way?”
“Definitely the bad way.” She hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this—it’s not exactly classified, but Captain Marcello wanted it kept as quiet as possible. But with your sideways way of thinking…and you do know how to keep a secret. The Phobos thing showed that much.”
“Uh-huh,” Travis said, a twinge of guilt pulling at him. He had not, in fact, entirely kept his role in that incident secret. He’d blabbed that one critical detail to his half-brother, Gavin.
At the time, of course, he’d been frustrated and aching and fully intending to leave the Navy once his five-T-year hitch was up.
He’d never known what use Gavin had made of that indiscretion. He’d expected it to come back to haunt him, though, and had walked on eggshells for several months afterward, waiting for the inevitable official fallout.
No such fallout had ever come. But that didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally still feel it looming silently over his head.
Regardless, he’d learned his lesson. Whatever Lisa told him would stay strictly between them. Especially if it
meant spending a few more minutes with her this afternoon.
“Why don’t you go into the living room and sit down?” he suggested. “I’ll go get the fondue going.”
“Let me come help,” Lisa volunteered. “Years of eating fondues, and I’ve never yet seen anyone set one up.”
“You may be disappointed to find out how incredibly simple it is,” Travis warned.
“I’ll take my chances,” Lisa said. “Come on. Let’s melt some chocolate into submission, and I’ll tell you all about Casca.”
* * *
Winton family dinners, Edward reflected, didn’t happen very often anymore. And the depressing fact was that when they did they were far too often of this sort.
Bleak. Painful. Quiet.
Heart-rending.
He looked around the table, trying to envision how his family had looked in happier times. But for some reason, his brain found it impossible to bring up those images. All he could see was what was, with perhaps a shadowing of what was to come.
At the head of the table sat his father, King Michael, eating mechanically, his gaze a million light-years away. Beside him was his wife Mary, her own gaze alternating between her husband and the plateful of food she was barely picking at. At Edward’s own sides were his wife Cynthia and his son Richard, neither of whom were making any more headway on their meal than anyone else. On Cynthia’s other side was their daughter Sophie, who was probably trying harder than anyone else in the family to exude some cheerfulness, and failing miserably.
And directly across from Edward was his sister Elizabeth.
Edward was trying hard not to look at her. Probably everyone at the table was, if only from a desire to offer her whatever degree of privacy they could while sitting bare meters away. But perversely, and despite his best intentions, Edward found it impossible to keep his eyes turned away for long.
There was just something about widow’s garb that irresistibly drew people’s attention.
In her place, Edward reflected, he probably would have opted to skip this event entirely. No one would have blamed her. The King certainly hadn’t commanded her presence.
