by Chris Bunch
“What’s the matter, boy?” one guard asked.
Riss took a pack from her pouch, tore it open and dumped it on the ground, then crawled backward.
“Let’s see what’s bothering you.”
The guards and the dog were coming closer, the whines getting more and more eager. Then the dog hit Riss’s defense, and started wheezing, then choking, then coughing convulsively as the white pepper did its work.
The guards knelt over the dog as it rolled about. Tough, dog, Riss thought. You’ll be all right in an hour.
She crawled around the commotion, and then, ahead of her, was a building. Riss checked it from memory. Just about where she’d wanted to be.
All she had to do was move north a hundred meters or so, where the aerial photo showed some thick brush, and go to ground. The path she wanted, which led to one of the tree-hung outdoor speaking areas, was less than twenty meters from that brush.
Now, if the weather report only held true, and it didn’t rain, and everything got moved inside …
If that happened, she’d have to chance entering the main cottage area the next night, and who knew how hard that would be.
• • •
“A beautiful morning, isn’t it, Chief?” the aide tried.
L’Pellerin looked about the sun-dappled wilderness around him. “Somewhat of a waste, I think,” he said. “In my province, this would’ve been cut down and turned into productive farmland a century ago.”
The aide thought about arguing, realized it would get him nowhere, kept silent.
L’Pellerin, with a sour expression, looked about the path they were walking down, toward the speaking area somewhat absurdly called Truth Zone III. He was deliberately a little late, giving time for everyone to assemble and for their anticipation to build.
Suddenly he jerked.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“Damned fly, or something, just bit me,” he said. “You see? Farmland doesn’t bite.”
“Nossir.”
He didn’t see the tiny, sharp-pointed plas ampoule on the ground, and a second later, it melted. Nor had he heard the soft paff of Riss’s airgun.
They walked around a bend, and L’Pellerin saw, with satisfaction, the speaking area was packed. Everyone who was at the Ball was there, or so it looked.
The assembled dignitaries came to their feet, applauding, as they saw him. L’Pellerin’s aide dropped away, and L’Pellerin walked alone to the low platform.
He waited until the applause had died.
“Good morning,” he said. Most speakers begin with a joke or a pleasantry. L’Pellerin had no time for such fripperies.
“I assume you know me,” he said. “And I know you, or know of you, very well indeed.”
There was an uncomfortable laugh. L’Pellerin let the reminder of his secret files sink in.
“I was asked to be here, and discuss with you the current situation with Torguth. I don’t have any speech, don’t think I need one. You may have questions. Feel free to ask them at any time.
“To begin with, you should be aware that I, and my men and women of the Dampier Information Bureau, work night and day to ensure that Dampier, and, yes, Belfort, are secure and free.
“There have been some insecure, or even subversive-minded, citizens who doubt that. There is no cause for alarm, no reason to worry.”
L’Pellerin swallowed, feeling suddenly a bit ill. It must have been that overly rich breakfast he’d had. He should have gone without and just had his normal bread, cheese, and tea.
“Our two systems are as safe, and we are as far from war, as we have been since the first colonists landed on Montrois, centuries ago.” L’Pellerin felt a bit of sweat on his forehead, noted the worried look his aide, sitting in the front row, gave him. A bit too much sun the day before, certainly.
“We have defeated Torguth twice within two hundred years, and that system has learned its lesson. I can assure you that — ”
A man whom L’Pellerin recognized as one of the fortunately absent Reynard’s toadies, stood and quite rudely asked, “How many Torguth agents are there on the Belfort Worlds?”
L’Pellerin reached for the obvious answer, but his tongue escaped him. “At least five thousand. Perhaps more.” He couldn’t believe what he’d just said. He tried to retract his words, but the man persisted.
“And how many here on Montrois?”
“Two hundred, at the least.”
There was an uproar. The man persisted. “How much have you been paid by Torguth?”
Now there were shouted insults at the man.
This one L’Pellerin could answer honestly. “Nothing.”
“Then what have they promised you?”
Again the world swam about him.
“Power,” L’Pellerin said weakly. “A share in the … in their government. After they seize Montrois and our other worlds.”
Now there was chaos. The man had to shout loudly.
“So that makes you, the head of DIB, a traitor!”
It wasn’t a question, but L’Pellerin found himself nodding.
“Yes … yes …”
His words were lost in the tumult.
• • •
They took L’Pellerin, near collapse, back to his cottage.
His aides called for an emergency lifter to take the man to a hospital. Clearly, he’d suffered some sort of breakdown.
The ambulance came in hot, crushing a pair of benches as it landed on the aide’s signals. L’Pellerin’s guards were surrounding the cottage. The aide ran to the door, knocked on it. There was no answer.
“Sir! Your lifter’s here.”
A flat thud came from within.
“What …”
“Out of the way,” a bodyguard, who knew what the sound was, growled. He and another man put shoulders against the door and smashed it off its hinges.
L’Pellerin lay sprawled on the floor. There was a small-caliber pistol beside his right hand, and a small blackish hole in his temple.
• • •
As the ambulance came off the ground with L’Pellerin’s corpse, Riss cycled the lock open, flapped to a seat in the patrol ship, and collapsed.
“I ain’t no merwoman,” she said. She managed to kick off her fins and shrug out of her breathing apparatus. “The swim back was a lot worse than going in.”
“Well?”
“Get us out of here,” she ordered. “When we’re well clear, send Star Risk One a com. On the way home.”
“What happened? Or can you tell us?”
“A cop got bit by the truth bug. Hell if I know what went on from there.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
Riss took the next day off, as did the rest of Star Risk, letting the smoke settle, and not returning Reynard’s corns. But they took pity, finally answering one late at night, and suggested Reynard might want to drop by the mansion the next day.
He did, and joined Star Risk at its breakfast table, but ate nothing, still looking somewhat peaked.
“Great Egg,” he said, “but you people really go for the throat.”
“That is our reputation,” von Baldur agreed comfortably. “More caff?” He poured.
“What is going to happen about L’Pellerin?” Riss asked. She had already read the confidential report Reynard’s assistant had made about the debacle at the Artists’ Ball.
“Not much of anything,” Reynard said. “We don’t need to shatter the government. The word is that the poor man suffered some kind of seizure, most likely from working too hard.
“There’ll be a funeral, just small enough so it’s obvious he died in some sort of disgrace … details will get out, if they already aren’t … and just big enough so the exact truth won’t be common knowledge.”
“What about the Dampier Information Bureau?” Grok asked.
“They’re in desperate trouble,” Reynard said. “No matter which side wins the election, there’ll be a massive shakeup. I’m thinking, if I become premier ag
ain, of dissolving the whole damned thing and starting over. Spies don’t seem to learn their lessons that easily.
“Or maybe I’ll put a deputy of our party, a man named Guy Glenn whom you might remember, in charge. He would enjoy that.
“Right now, all their agents, overt and covert, are keeping close to cover.”
“Better question,” Goodnight said, buttering toast and putting a very large slice of mustarded ham on it, “is what about his private files? The ones that supposedly had who was sleeping with who and all that.”
“Immediately after hearing of his death,” Reynard said, looking a bit uncomfortable, “a special police task force took custody of all of L’Pellerin’s papers. Even as we speak, those files are being destroyed.”
“All of them?” von Baldur asked.
“Well … all but a few … and those pertain to planetary security.”
King and Riss exchanged cynical looks. Planetary security no doubt meant having full information on all Universalists’ private lives.
“What I’m concerned about is what will happen to the Masked Ones?” Reynard asked. “They’re still an unknown quantity, and I don’t know if L’Pellerin had a subordinate qualified to take over.”
“Do not worry about them,” von Baldur said. “There is no subordinate worth concerning yourself about once his superior has been dealt with harshly. And a leaderless mob dissolves within hours.”
“Then the election should be a certainty for us,” Reynard said. “And then the house of cards will begin to tumble. Sufyerd can be brought into the open for another, fair trial, and your commission will be fulfilled.”
“Not quite,” von Baldur said. “I obtained some information some time ago, not sure what I was going to do with it. After due cogitation, and considering that your checks have been delivered promptly, with a minimum of complaint, I have decided to attempt a favor for you, and for Dampier.”
“Which is?” Reynard asked.
“I’m going to prevent war with Torguth.”
Everyone at the table looked incredulous. Reynard noted the expressions.
“All by yourself?”
“Not at all,” von Baldur said, scooping eggs and fruit onto his fork, and downing them. When he finished chewing, he added, “I will have some help.”
“From where?”
“Now, I do not think I need to be specific,” von Baldur said. “Especially if my scheme … er, plan … does not work as smoothly as I hope.”
“I should have learned by now about asking details from you people,” Reynard said, getting up. “I have things to take care of, with the election only three weeks away.
“Especially after having been under the weather for the last two days.”
“Oh,” M’chel said. “I forgot. You might want to dump that decanter of brandy in your office out.”
“You? You did that to me?”
“You said you didn’t want to go to the Artists’ Ball, and wanted an impeccable excuse,” Riss said.
“But did you have to be so damned drastic?” Reynard said. “My stomach lining is still in knots.”
“As you noted,” M’chel said. “We go for the throat. Or lower areas.”
FIFTY-NINE
“Gods of above, below, and the hinterlands,” Fra Diavolo said. “You certainly dream large, von Baldur.”
“It’s not a dream at all,” von Baldur said. “With your resources, a reality. I’ve only got my yacht and two patrol craft, you know.”
“My people will volunteer … although I’m sure there are some that will need to be recompensed for taking time off from work,” Diavolo said. “And fuel costs will be interesting. Are you sure you aren’t trying to bankrupt me?”
“Would you like to see the bills we have been submitting to our main client?”
Diavolo shuddered. “No. No, I think not.” He thought for a time.
“It would be an accomplishment,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to brag about it. But I’ve certainly never heard of anybody stopping a war in the manner you propose.”
“It should work well,” von Baldur said persuasively. “Especially remembering that every dictatorship is professionally paranoiac.”
“True,” Diavolo said, and considered some more, then came to his feet.
“Why not? It’ll be a tale long in the telling for my nonexistent grandchildren.”
• • •
Exactly on schedule, the Torguth fleet blasted off from its various bases in the system. Each ship commander had a copy of the maneuver plan, with his part in it precisely timed.
The entire fleet first rendezvoused in empty space, between systems. Strangely enough, there was a large ship, a rather elderly in-system transport, hanging in a dead orbit nearby.
A pair of destroyers scouted the ship, and reported it was just what it appeared to be, except that its registry was in the Dampier System, which was a bit unsettling. Fleet Admiral Garad gave orders to ignore the ship and begin the war games.
About a quarter of the Torguth ships vanished on cue into hyperspace. They would reappear later, playing the maneuver enemy.
War games can be played in a myriad of ways. The chanciest — at least regarding the military and its leaders’ reputations — is to merely posit a situation, and let what happens happen.
Chance is not a favorite of the military, particularly in peace time. Since Torguth was a precisely run system, their grand maneuvers were to be played to a precise scenario.
The Torguth fleet made two jumps, the second emerging from N-space as planned, beyond the Belfort System.
Waiting for them were a pair of ex-Alliance Pyrrhus-class patrol ships, who took no notice of the Torguth, nor of a designated flagship’s attempt to communicate with them and ask their intentions, which Friedrich von Baldur listened to most happily.
After a nervous hour, the patrol ships vanished, just before, again, as planned, the Torguth fleet was attacked by the aggressors, playing the part of Dampier warships.
After careful skirmishing, to ensure there were no embarrassments such as a collision, the attackers were driven off, as the script dictated. A space yacht appeared as this was happening, watching and evidently recording.
Fleet Admiral Garad was beginning to get a trifle nervous about unexpected appearances. He commed the problem to his High Command on Torguth, and was advised to take whatever action he felt necessary, neatly dumping the ball, and any catastrophe that might occur, back in his lap.
Garad decided to proceed with the games, and ordered the third fleet jump, this into the heart of the Belfort System.
Yet again, two ships were waiting for them, one a converted minesweeper, the other an ultraluxurious yacht. Both refused attempts to communicate. If this had been a real war, Torguth would have now ordered the attack on the Belfort Worlds.
But it was not, and so the fleet made two jumps to a dead system, four of whose worlds were approximately the same distance from their dying sun as the populated Belfort Worlds.
They would represent the target and, since they were unpopulated, would provide targets for live fire exercises.
Impossibly, since this system was light years from anything, two more Dampierian ships were there ahead of him. Confusion on the command decks of Torguth warships was bubbling.
Garad didn’t know what was going on, what scheme Dampier had mounted, but knew better than to chance his precious ships. He ordered the games canceled, and for all ships to return to their bases.
The very worried High Command met to discuss the matter.
It had already been clear that Dampier had at least one, probably more, agents on Torguth. One had almost been apprehended some time ago. It was also evident that their main agent had to be high in the military hierarchy, perhaps almost as high as the late L’Pellerin, for how else could their top-secret war games have all their details exposed?
The question was, why did Dampier choose to let Torguth know of this agent, and th
at their innermost sanctums had been penetrated? It was here that explanations proliferated, and chaos began to set in, since none of them made a great deal of sense. Clearly, though, the planned invasion of the Belfort Worlds must be set aside for a time.
For quite a time, it was pointed out, since Dampier’s elections were less than a week away, and it appeared likely that saber-rattling Reynard would be returned to office.
When he did, there was no doubt in any mind on the High Command that the aborted Belfort Defense System would be constructed, which would make invasion far more difficult, and the Dampierian military would be on far greater alert.
It was also assumed that Dampier’s fleet would be heavily reinforced.
In the meantime, Torguth could proceed with a fine pogrom of its various intelligence apparats, until the mole, or moles, were winkled out.
There was major bewilderment at high levels on Torguth, and the military despises perplexity even more than they dislike chance. And so the decision was made to do nothing until the situation clarified itself, in the fullness of time.
• • •
“Now,” von Baldur boasted, “do I deserve the title of Great Peacemaker?”
“You do,” Riss said. “All you have to do is convince people to believe what happened actually went down.”
Von Baldur slumped a little. “Oh well. As the good Diavolo said, it shall at least make an extraordinary bar story.”
SIXTY
The election was a total disaster for the Universalists.
Reynard may have labored under some sense of fair play in not releasing the details of L’Pellerin’s treason — not to mention his railroading of the innocent Sufyerd to protect himself, and forgetting the murder of the vanity-stricken Kismayu — but Fra Diavolo had no such scruples, and sent his broadsheet writers in for the kill.
Ladier, already in disgrace, was brought up again and again as representing true Universalist thought, and the point was hammered that the rich always think more of their bankrolls than their nation.
The election ran 70–22 in favor of Reynard’s party, the missing numbers going to various fringe parties.
