by David Weber
“Actually, as I understand it,” Lieutenant Hearns said, and Harahap hid a smile of his own as he realized her left hand and Indy’s right were both out of sight under the table, “you didn’t exactly volunteer to help a cabal of lunatic genetic supermen take over the galaxy, Mister Harahap.”
“Kind of you to put it that way, Lieutenant,” he replied. “And I will admit there was a hefty element of that old cliché about ‘needs must when the devil drives.’ Or that other one about ‘any port in a storm.’” He shrugged. “When well-heeled assassins are out to kill you, you do have a tendency to catch the first shuttle out of town and think about destinations later. And I never heard anything about ‘genetic supermen’ until I fell into my present company. My employers on Mesa certainly never said a word about them!” He shook his head. “But, having said all of that, I didn’t tell them to shove the job offer where the sun doesn’t shine when they made it.”
“If you had, you’d be dead,” Indiana said, and Harahap wondered if he’d heard the sharpness in his own quick riposte.
“That would have been inconvenient,” the ex-Gendarme acknowledged after a moment. “And you’re probably right, Indy. But don’t be putting me up for any medals. I may not have liked all the things I did for Bardasano, Detweiler, and Rufino, and I may not have thought I had a lot of choice, but I did do them, and I did my best to do them well. I suppose part of that was a sort of craftsman’s pride in his workmanship, and part of it was that it was pretty clear they’d arrange a nasty accident if I didn’t do them well. But never think I didn’t like the thought of all the credits they were contributing to my retirement fund.”
“I haven’t met very many candidates for sainthood,” Zilwicki remarked to no one in particular.
“Nor have I,” Harrington said with a curious serenity. Harahap looked at her, and she shrugged. “Mister Harahap, I’ve hobnobbed with smugglers, spies, freedom fighters, and Ballroom terrorists. Most of us are some shade of gray.”
“Indeed we are,” Zilwicki rumbled, then startled the others with a sudden, rolling chortle. They looked at him, and it was his turn to shrug. In his case, it was a rather more massive production than the duchess had managed.
“I was just thinking about genetic supermen and changed people,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. “I know a batch of what you might call early-model genetic supermen—well, superwomen, in this case—who have developed a whole different attitude where the Alignment is concerned. If they can turn over a new leaf, anybody can!”
He smiled for a moment longer, but then the smile disappeared and his eyes turned dark again. He started to say something more, then stopped and shook his head sharply. Clean Killer raised his head, looking at him intently, and Harrington reached across Harahap to lay her left hand on his forearm.
“Sorry.” Zilwicki shook his head almost like a man shaking off a punch. “I just got back from doing something I’m sure we’ve both done upon occasion, Mister Harahap: getting out of town in the nick of time. Unfortunately, some of my friends didn’t.”
“Anton, you don’t know that.” Harrington’s voice was soft, almost gentle.
“You’re right, I don’t. And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Not knowing?” Zilwicki said, looking at her, and she nodded.
“I know.” She squeezed his forearm gently, then sat back in her chair. “But I’m confident we’ll be hearing from Admiral Gold Peak and Admiral Tourville pretty darned soon now, so why don’t you let the future take care of itself?”
“Sound advice,” he said, and returned his gaze to Harahap. “Frankly, one of the reasons Her Grace invited you to dinner was so that you and I could compare notes.”
“Really?” Harahap looked back at him for a moment, then chuckled. “I have to say, I really would like to hear about your and Cachat’s adventures in Mendel! I got back to Mesa about a T-month after the Green Pines incident. I never put much stock in the official stories—not looking at the blast pattern and remembering the Gamma Center—but I would love to hear your take on it. Especially since that little jaunt seems to be what started the entire ball rolling on this ‘Alignment’ business.”
“Interesting you should say that,” Zilwicki said, “because that’s where I just came back from. Mendel, I mean.”
Harahap’s eyes widened and, despite himself, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. Zilwicki had actually gone back into Mendel? Right back to the one place in the galaxy where the only person more hated and reviled than him would have to be Victor Cachat? And if he had, then why—?
The thought broke off as Harahap remembered what he’d said about friends who hadn’t “gotten out of town” in time. And then that reference to Admiral Gold Peak and Admiral Tourville…
“Should I assume your Navy—or, possibly, your navies, plural—are about to pay a visit on the good people of Mesa, Your Grace?” he said, cocking his head at Harrington, and she snorted.
“You do pick up on the sidebands, don’t you?”
“It didn’t exactly take a hyper-physicist in this case,” he pointed out.
“No, I don’t suppose it did. And, yes, that is where Anton was until quite recently. It’s also, as I’m sure someone with your keen analytical mind will quickly deduce, the reason he looks so little like himself. By my calculations, if Countess Gold Peak and Tenth Fleet haven’t already arrived in Mesa, they should be there within the next couple of days.”
“And that’s when things really get interesting, isn’t it?” Harahap asked slowly.
“Exactly,” Zilwicki rumbled. “Especially since there’d been an entire string of ‘terrorist incidents’ before I left.” His expression was grim. “Somebody was using Green Pines and the Ballroom as a cover for sinking ocean liners and blowing up amusement arcades. They were leaving a lot of bodies behind, too…and the pace was accelerating when I translated out.”
“But if it wasn’t you—and that whole story never did make sense to me from the get-go—then who was ‘somebody’?”
“That’s one of the things you and I need to talk about.” Zilwicki shrugged. “On the face of things, I can think of only one logical suspect. And my analysis of the casualties suggested some very interesting statistical correlations. You and I need to examine those correlations, and I’d really like to crank your view of the relationship between the Alignment and the official system government into my models. Victor and I had what you might call a worm’s-eye perspective on the in-system dynamic. From where we sat, it seemed obvious there was a hell of a lot going on behind the scenes, but there was no way to get any sort of feel for what it was. I realize you didn’t spend all that much time on Mesa, at least after you’d become a valued employee,” he gave Harahap a brief, tight grin, “but you did get a chance to actually talk to this ‘Detweiler,’ not to mention Bardasano and Chernyshev, and we’ve had ample evidence of your…eye for detail, let’s say. I want to hear everything you can tell me about them and about their attitude toward the system government. I’m not looking for what they said about it. I’m looking for the implications of how what they said and how their actual actions and interactions—with others, not just with you—might let us get at that relationship.”
“I’ll tell you what I can,” Harahap said. “But if you’re about to conquer the system, I’d think your investigators on the spot will be able to tell you a lot more—and a lot more quickly—than anything I might have to offer.”
“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t.” Zilwicki’s expression turned grim once more. “Tell me, have you ever heard of matryoshka dolls?”
Harahap suppressed a blink at the sudden non sequitur. Then he shook his head.
“Pity.” Zilwicki shook his head. “They make a really good analogy for what I’ve started to think we’re actually up against. But that’s okay. Duchess Harrington here’s come up with a somewhat earthier metaphor that works just as well.”
“‘Metaphor’?” Harahap looked at Harrington. “What sort of ‘metaphor’ would
that be, Your Grace?”
“An onion, Mister Harahap,” she said quietly. “I think what we’re doing is peeling an onion, and you’ve been a lot closer to its core than anyone else we’ve got.”
CNO’s Office
Admiralty Building
and
George Benton Tower
City of Old Chicago
Sol System
“Excuse me, Sir. Have you got a minute?”
Winston Kingsford looked up in surprise as the side door to his private office opened and a brown-haired, brown-eyed rear admiral stuck his head through it. There were very few people with the combination to the private lift that served that door, and even fewer who would simply arrive unannounced. Access to the Chief of Naval Operations was guarded rather more closely than the Sol System’s hyper-limit, and those with the temerity to trespass upon it seldom fared well.
There were exceptions to every rule, however, and this was one of them.
“Maybe one minute, Caswell.” Kingsford tried—without complete success—to put a repressive note into his voice as he waved the rear admiral into the office and pointed at the chair on the far side of his desk. “I have a meeting with Permanent Senior Undersecretary Kolokoltsov in less than half an hour, and I’m running late.”
“I know you do, Sir, and under other circumstances, I would have waited till you got back. I think, though, that something I’ve just turned up may have a bearing on your meeting with him.”
“Oh?” Kingsford’s expression took on an edge of wariness.
Rear Admiral Gweon—the overdue promotion to go with his position as the CEO of Economic Analysis, officially carried on the organizational chart as Section Three: Office of Naval Intelligence, had finally come through—had demonstrated an uncanny feel for apparently disconnected bits of intelligence that wound up being critically important. He gave honest analysis and wasn’t afraid to offer an opinion when asked but never gave one if he couldn’t provide the argument to back it up. And along with that feel of his for significant bits of intelligence, he’d demonstrated an almost equally uncanny sense of when those significant bits were time-critical.
“Yes, Sir. I don’t have as much corroboration as I’d really like, but it’s solid enough I felt I had to bring it to your attention.”
“And can you deliver this new information to me in time for me to make my scheduled appointment with Permanent Senior Undersecretary Kolokoltsov?”
“No, Sir.” Gweon met his superior’s gaze levelly. “I’m afraid I can’t. Not and give you the context that makes me believe this is really important. I mean, really important, Sir.”
Kingsford considered him for a moment, then sighed and reached for his secure com. A moment later, Willis Jennings appeared on his display.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Screen Benton Tower,” the CNO told his chief of staff. “Tell them something’s come up and ask Permanent Senior Undersecretary Kolokoltsov if we can reschedule our sixteen hundred. Tell him I could probably be there by—?”
He paused, looking at Gweon, who held up both hands, spreading all five fingers of the left and four on the right. Kingsford’s eyebrows rose, but Gweon only waggled his fingers emphatically, and the CNO shrugged.
“Tell him I can be there by nineteen hundred hours, Willis,” he said. “Apologize profusely and if they absolutely can’t reschedule, tell them you’re authorized to deputize for me.” He shrugged again. “It’s not like they’re going to be discussing anything you and I haven’t already chewed up one side and down the other.”
“Yes, Sir.” Willis nodded, but he also hesitated. “Um, Sir, if they ask me what’s come up, what should I tell them?”
“Tell them it’s an intelligence matter. One I have to jump on as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Sir. Understood.”
“Good! Thank you, Willis. Clear.”
He killed the link and smiled at Gweon with just a touch of frost.
“And now, Caswell, I think you’d better explain why I have to jump on this as quickly as possible. Bearing in mind, of course, that I’m going to have to explain that to the Permanent Senior Undersecretary.”
* * *
“I’m terribly sorry I had to reschedule, Sir,” Fleet Admiral Kingsford said as he was ushered into Innokentiy Kolokoltsov’s office.
The sun had set thirty minutes earlier, and the October sky outside the office suite’s clear wall was a mass of thunderheads, rolling in across Lake Michigan. White-crested waves charged across the lake, pounding across the deserted beaches in a wild smother of foam and gray water, and lightning lit the cloud bellies with rose-tinged fire.
It was, he thought, only too fitting a metaphor for the Solarian League.
“I’m sorry you did, too.” Kolokoltsov sounded a bit testy. “MacArtney was really pissed, to be honest.” The senior Mandarin shrugged. “He had to leave for that conference on Mars, and I think he had a few things he wanted to discuss with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Kingsford repeated. “I hope Admiral Jennings was able to answer any questions to his satisfaction?”
“No doubt he could have…if Nathan hadn’t announced that he’d just hold them until you ‘had the time’ to meet with us.” Kolokoltsov flashed his teeth in a thin smile. “I can’t say I was very happy to have you cancel at such short notice, myself, but Nathan was in fine form, even for him.”
“I was afraid of that,” Kingsford sighed. “Nonetheless, Sir, I think you’ll agree with my decision when you hear what the intelligence matter in question was. And, to be honest, if I’d gone ahead and come on schedule, I suspect a lot of the answers I might have given him would’ve had to be…revisited.”
“Oh?” Kolokoltsov sat a bit straighter. Then he stood and waved the CNO to a chair next to the koi pond. On the way there, he snagged a bottle of thirty-year West Glenmore Blended whiskey from the office wet bar.
“Sit,” he said, and poured three fingers into each glass. He set the bottle on the coffee table between them, handed one glass to Kingsford and lifted the other with a wintry smile. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll both need this before you’re done. Am I right?”
“Actually, you may be, Sir.”
“Wonderful.” Kolokoltsov dropped inelegantly into a facing chair, took a slow swallow of whiskey, and leaned back. “In that case, you’d best get to it, I suppose.”
“Yes, Sir.” Kingsford allowed himself a smaller sip, then sat forward, holding the glass in both hands between his knees.
“I was just tidying up my notes for this afternoon’s meeting when Rear Admiral Gweon turned up in my office.”
Kolokoltsov’s eyes narrowed. In his opinion, Caswell Gweon was the best analyst the Office of Naval Intelligence had yet produced. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that high a bar, given results to date.
“Admiral Gweon had just become aware of certain facts he felt had to be brought to my attention and then to yours, and he felt it was important for him to set them in context for me. As it happens, I think he was entirely correct about that.”
“And to what would those facts pertain?”
“As you know, our sources in Beowulf have been…limited, to say the least, since Caddell-Markham and the others chucked Rear Admiral Simpson out on her ear and then refused Admiral Tsang transit.” He grimaced unhappily. “I have to say that, much as that pissed me off—especially the refusal to pass Tsang through to support Filareta—they really did save a lot of Navy lives that day. Of course, those lives might not have needed saving if they hadn’t already decided to throw in with the Manties, but give the devil his due, they did save them.
“We’ve finally gotten a bit more information out of Beowulf, however. ONI had a couple of long-term assets in place in the Beowulfan shipyards and military support sectors even before New Tuscany. They were civilians, not BSD personnel, and one of them came home in the last ‘exchange cartel.’”
Kolokoltsov nodded, his expression less than happy. The newly independen
t Republic of Beowulf had arranged a passenger fleet shuttle service to transport Solarian citizens who had no desire to live in a breakaway star nation—including native Beowulfers who’d disagreed with the plebiscite result—back to the Sol System in return for Beowulfers who’d found themselves stuck elsewhere in the League and been unable to get home before the plebiscite. He and his fellows had taken no official notice of them, since that might have required them to take official action against Beowulf, which was likely to be more than a little risky just at the moment.
“Gweon had been involved in running them, since they were there more for economic and general industrial information than anything on the naval side.” Kingsford grimaced. “If we’d seen any of this coming, we probably would have ‘retasked’ them long ago, but we didn’t. Anyway, as soon as this agent hit Sol, she made a beeline to ONI to file her report, and when he shared it with me, I understood why. The ‘Grand Alliance’ is apparently a hell of a lot shorter on ammunition than Harrington chose to imply to Filareta.”
“Excuse me?” Kolokoltsov frowned, and Kingsford shrugged.
“I don’t doubt there was an awful lot of something floating around out there, looking like missile pods when she flashed them at Filareta,” he said. “On the other hand, those could’ve been some more of their damned electronic warfare platforms. At any rate, even if every single ‘pod’ she showed Filareta was genuine, they probably didn’t launch from more than twenty percent of them. We already knew that from the tactical scans they sent us, assuming that data hadn’t been falsified. We don’t think it was, though, and according to our agent’s report, one reason they fired so few at him may be that they didn’t have the missiles to launch.”
“They haven’t been shy about using missiles in the other engagements since then,” Kolokoltsov pointed out skeptically.
“We haven’t thought they were being shy about it,” Kingsford replied. “But remember, we haven’t seen any of their massive pod launches since Raging Justice. At both Hypatia and the Prime Terminus, all the missiles we saw from the Manties seem to have come from internal magazines. And analysis of the tac records from the survivors from both actions indicate that the missiles being used were different from the ones used against Filareta. Our analysts suggest they were smaller—which would make sense, coming from internal magazines—with lighter laserheads, fewer lasing rods, and penaids that were somewhat less capable. There’s also some indication—from Hypatia, especially—that to reach their full range they required a ballistic phase their pod-launched missiles wouldn’t have. I hasten to add that that last point is more problematical than the others.
