by David Weber
“I think it’s wonderful of you to offer to host this Dzień Przewodniczącego celebration here on Szafirowa Wyspa,” Szymon Ziomkowski replied, gripping Szponder’s hand firmly. “I’ve always thought this was a remarkably beautiful place, and I know Wujek Włodzimierz loved it here. I remember him telling me once that one reason the language in the Karta Partii was so beautiful was that it was composed here, looking out over the Wiepolski. And he added that his host’s love for the language was another reason.”
“I’m honored to hear he said that,” Szponder said, and he meant it, despite what was about to happen. “Those were wonderful days, Szymon. We genuinely believed we could change the world.”
“And you succeeded, Mr. Szponder!” a bright soprano voice said, and Szponder made himself smile at Klementyna Sokołowska, Ziomkowski’s personal aide and assistant.
Sokołowska was thirteen T-years younger than Ziomkowski, red-haired, blue-eyed, and quite attractive. She was also, Szponder suspected, considerably more intelligent than she chose to appear. Not surprisingly, since she’d been personally selected by Agnieszka Krzywicka as Ziomkowski’s watchdog. One of her jobs was to keep him convinced the RON was still the strong, forward-looking organization his uncle had intended it to be, and she’d been known to flatter him shamelessly in pursuit of that goal. Szponder was confident she’d have happily used her physical charms as another leash for her nominal boss, but for the fact that Szymon loved his wife dearly and would never dream of betraying her.
“No one succeeds completely, Ms. Sokołowska,” he said calmly. “It’s an imperfect universe. Włodzimierz understood that when we were drafting the Charter, although it’s true we sometimes come closer to success than others.”
“You always were a philosopher, Tomasz,” Izabela Ziomkowska said, following her husband down the landing stage stairs. He held out his hand to her, too, but she ignored it in favor of a firm hug and a peck on the cheek. “But I think Włodzimierz also said that even if we have to settle for less than perfection at any given moment, we’re always free to go right on pursuing it.”
“Indeed he did, Izabela,” Szponder said warmly. Izabela Ziomkowska was one of his favorite people, and if he suspected Sokołowska was smarter than she chose to appear, he knew Izabela was. In fact, he was rather counting on that.
“Szymon, why don’t you and Izabela—and Ms. Sokołowska, of course—head down to the Green Salon? That’s where the munchies have been laid out, and Grażyna’s holding the fort at that end while I manage the greeting line at this end. I’ll be along as soon as I finish my ‘Welcome to Szafirowa Wyspa’ duties.”
“Of course,” Ziomkowski said. “Try not to get stuck up here too long, though. It would be rude of us to begin the banquet without our host, but I warn you, I haven’t eaten a bite since breakfast.” He smiled broadly. “I’ve been saving room. I know what your kitchen staff’s capable of!”
“We’ll try not to disappoint you,” Szponder promised.
* * *
“Mazur isn’t going to make it,” Tomek Nowak murmured into Szponder’s ear as they started down the sweeping staircase into the Green Salon. Szponder cocked an eyebrow, working hard at keeping any dismay from his expression, and Nowak shrugged. “I think it’s legitimate. He was out at Piłsudski for some meeting. First it ran over, and now his shuttle’s developed engine trouble. He says he’s still coming, but he won’t get here before the deadline. And neither will Miternowski.”
“That’s…unfortunate,” Szponder murmured.
Stacja Kosmiczna Józefa Piłsudskiego was the Włocławek System’s primary industrial and freight platform. It was also the site of the Stowarzyszenie Eksporterów Owoców Morza’s off-world offices, and Hieronim Mazur spent quite a lot of time there. Szponder had hoped he’d be able to resist the temptation to just run by his Piłsudski office today of all days, but the one virtue Mazur possessed was that he was genuinely hard-working.
Damn it.
And to make bad worse, Asystent Pierwszego Sekretarza Partii Tymoteusz Miternowski, Krzywicka’s deputy, was traveling with him. Krzywicka had groomed Miternowski as her assistant because she was confident he’d go right on being her assistant, without developing any unfortunate notions about taking her job, instead. He was not, to say the least, noted for driving ambition or intestinal fortitude. Left to his own devices, having him elsewhere at the critical moment might not be disastrous. Left to Mazur’s prompting, however…
“How late will they actually be?” he asked as they neared the foot of the stairs.
“Sounds like at least several hours. He says he’ll try to get here before the fireworks, but he can’t guarantee it,” Nowak replied quietly, and Szponder muttered a quiet, fervent curse. The fireworks display wasn’t scheduled until after sundown, another eight hours away.
“Then we’ll just have to go ahead on schedule without them, I suppose,” he said, and produced a broad smile as he walked out into the crowded vastness of the Green Salon.
His wife, Grażyna, came to meet him, tucking her hand into his elbow as their guests realized he was there and turned to face him. The hand on his arm gripped a bit more tightly than usual, but that was the sole sign of uneasiness she displayed. He waited until the side conversations had faded into near silence, then raised his right hand in welcome.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he said. “Thank all of you for coming. I hope you’ll find the trip’s been worth it. We have quite a few hours yet till sunset, when I trust the fireworks display will be suitably awe-inspiring, as promised. Fortunately, that gives us time for the banquet and the speechifying you all knew you’d have to put up with when you accepted the invitation. And Włocławekans can always use more time to dance!”
Laughter answered, along with a few humorous catcalls, and he smiled even more broadly in acknowledgment.
“So, if you’ll all accompany us, the weather’s cooperating and we’ve laid out the tables on the East Terrace. Mister Przewodniczący, if you and the Pierwszy Sekretarz will lead the way?”
“I imagine we can find the East Terrace,” Ziomkowski replied with a chuckle, and turned to Agnieszka Krzywicka.
Izabela Ziomkowska was twenty-seven centimeters shorter than her husband, but she was still forty centimeters taller than Krzywicka. Standing between the Ziomkowskis, the First Secretary looked even tinier than usual, but she smiled and took her place on Ziomkowski’s other side while Sokołowska brought up the rear, flanked by Ziomkowski’s personal security detail. The other guests—a veritable Who’s Who of Włocławek’s Oligarchia and the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej—shook out into order behind them and headed out the French doors to the shaded breeziness of the enormous East Terrace.
Long tables awaited them, covered with snow-white tablecloths, sparkling crystal, hand-glazed flatware, and table silver polished enough to use for mirrors. Discreet name cards marked each guest’s place, and live musicians played on the other side of the dance floor which had been erected just beyond the shading canopies.
Szponder watched his guests find their seats while the serving staff began collecting beverage orders, then glanced over his shoulder at Nowak and nodded casually. The younger man returned his nod, turned, and ambled casually back into the villa while Szponder escorted Grażyna to their own places at the center of the high table.
* * *
Grzegorz Zieliński swallowed another sip of iced mineral water and sternly suppressed an ignoble desire for something a little stronger. The possibility of anything untoward happening here, of all places, was about as minute as it could get, but the members of the Przewodniczący’s security detail took nothing for granted. The Departament Ochrony Przewodniczącego was rather strict about little things like drinking on duty.
He chuckled and set the glass back on the portable bar at his elbow. The DOP agents assigned to today’s festivities would eat after they were relieved, but at least as the detail’s senior agent he got to enjoy the canopies’ shade. Of course, that was a bit of a m
ixed blessing, since he also got to smell the delicious meal everyone else was enjoying.
He nodded to the bartender, then began another discreet sweep around the perimeter, and his smile faded. He knew Szafirowa Wyspa was one of the most secure locations on Włocławek, and he only had to glance upward to see the trio of armed air cars from Torczon Security Services, the security agency which had served the Szponder family for at least three generations. Torczon was the service of choice for at least two thirds of the Oligarchia, and Zieliński had felt relieved when Szponder informed the BBP Torczon would be handling security for the gala in order to reduce the vehicle congestion.
Despite that, something nibbled at Grzegorz Zieliński’s sense of comfort. He didn’t know what it was, yet he had the nagging sense that something wasn’t exactly where it was supposed to be. It was foolish, of course, but he couldn’t quite seem to shake it.
He was halfway through his sweep when Wincenty Małakowski’s voice came over his earbug.
“Grzegorz! There’s—”
The voice cut off and Zieliński stiffened.
“Wincenty?” he said sharply into his lapel mic. “Wincenty?!”
He was reaching for the panic button on his wrist com when he felt something cold touch the back of his neck. His head whipped around, and his eyes widened as Tomek Nowak smiled at him. There was something bright and glittery in Nowak’s hand, and Zieliński blinked, wondering why it was so hard to focus on it. He blinked again, and then his eyes widened. A hypo. That was a hypo gun. But why would Nowak be carrying a…
Zieliński’s brain stopped working. He stood there, eyes empty, and Nowak touched his shoulder gently.
“Why don’t you go have a seat over there by the musicians, Grzegorz?” he suggested, and Zieliński nodded. That sounded like an excellent idea, he decided. He was a little tired and a bit dizzy, and it would be good to get off his feet for a few minutes. He nodded to Nowak again, grateful for the suggestion, and headed off across the dance stage, walking a little carefully.
* * *
Tomasz Szponder watched the Przewodniczący’s chief bodyguard cross the stage, find a chair, and sit down, smiling at nothing in particular, his head moving gently in time with the music. Then Szponder turned his own head to find Nowak near the portable wet bar, and Nowak raised the glass in his hand.
Szponder drew a deep breath, squeezed Grażyna’s suddenly tense hand under the cover of the tablecloth, stood, and tapped his goblet with a spoon. The sweet chiming sound was surprisingly audible through the breeze and the background surf of voices, and faces turned in his direction.
He tapped again, and the side conversations died as all the guests gave him their attention.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “when I invited you, I promised fireworks and a surprise announcement in honor of this Dzień Przewodniczącego. To be honest, I trust the fireworks will be a bit less spectacular than they might be under other circumstances, but it’s time for my announcement.
“This is the hundredth anniversary of the birth of my dearest friend and mentor, Włodzimierz Ziomkowski. Forty-two years ago today, here, in this villa, we wrote out and signed the Karta of the Ruch Odnowy Narodowej. The RON was Włodzimierz’s life’s dream, his life’s work. Nothing was more important to him than its ideals, the need to improve the lives of every Włocławekan man, woman, and child. I can’t tell you how honored I was that he chose this island, and this villa, as the place where the words enshrining those ideals, those commitments, were first formally committed to writing.”
He paused, and a spatter of applause turned into a rolling ovation. More than half his guests rose, applauding still harder, and he smiled and raised his hands, waving them back into their seats.
“But the truth is,” he continued once quiet had returned, “that no task is ever completely finished. There’s always more to be done, more to accomplish, and that’s true here in Włocławek. And because it is, I invited all of you here on the centenary of Włodzimierz’s birth to begin the next step in fully realizing his dream for our star system.”
He paused once more. There was another splatter of applause, but one or two of his guests looked a bit confused and he heard a quiet mutter of whispered conversation. He waited another ten seconds, until the unobtrusive earbug in his left ear chimed, then straightened his spine, and his voice was harder when he spoke again, with an edge of steel none of them had heard from him in decades. Not since the violent, street-fighting days of the Agitacja.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please direct your attention to the villa,” he said…just as fifty heavily armed men and women came through the French doors and spread rapidly around the perimeter of the terrace.
Shocked silence spread with them, but only for another ten or twenty seconds.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” Agnieszka Krzywicka demanded sharply. She half-rose, staring about her, and her face tightened as she realized neither her security detachment nor Ziomkowski’s was anywhere to be seen.
“The meaning, Ms. Sekretarz,” Szponder said calmly, coldly, turning to face her as Grażyna rose to stand proudly at his side, “is that we’re taking back the movement you and your aparatczycy hijacked twenty T-years ago. Hopefully, we can accomplish that without bloodshed. However,” he met her stunned, furious eyes very, very levelly, “if you insist on watering the tree of liberty, we can do it that way, too.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Alpha translation in fifteen minutes, Ma’am,” Lieutenant Commander Saint-Germain announced.
“Thank you, Ulrich,” Captain Amanda Belloc replied, watching her plot as Task Group 10.2.7 approached the alpha wall.
Captain Belloc’s task group was twenty-three days out of Montana, and she felt the tension ratcheting up within her. She had no qualms about the capability of the task group Admiral Culbertson had built around the heavy cruiser Madelyn Hoffman to perform the first part of her mission orders. Backed by Captain Leah Piekarski’s division of Rolands, the older but still capable light cruiser Huang Zhen, and the five Culverin-class destroyers of Captain Zachariah Lewis’ Destroyer Division 102.1, she had more than enough firepower to deal with anything she couldn’t outrun effortlessly.
No, the problem was exactly how she went about executing the second part of her orders. Her task group was essentially a commerce raiding force, with the capacity to leave a fairly capable system-defense force in perhaps two of the four star systems on her list, but she had no capacity at all to occupy any of them. That meant she couldn’t go around, kicking in Frontier Security’s doors dirtside or issuing demands to independent governments, however deep in bed with the League they might be. She could—as her orders specified—contact any independent (or nominally so) system government after removing any Solarian forces in deep space with a message of friendship and a request to establish formal—and friendly—relations with the Star Empire. But even if the aforesaid nominally independent governments were in bed with the League, that was about as far as she could go. Unless the Mesan Alignment had been fomenting rebellion against those nominally independent governments and promising Manticoran support, the Star Empire had exactly zero moral justification for demanding their capitulation, at any rate.
She really wished it could be as simple as settling into orbit and posting something like “Hey! Any revolutionaries down there expecting Manticoran assistance? Here we are!” to the planetary boards. Somehow, though, that seemed a little lacking in…subtlety. Worse, it might very well spark a rebellion which wouldn’t have occurred otherwise. That could get a lot of people killed unnecessarily, not to mention undermining the Star Empire’s assertion that someone else had been promoting violent rebellion and only pretending to be Manticore. The admiral’s orders covered her if something went wrong, but it wasn’t the job of a Queen’s officer to let things go wrong, and Amanda Belloc had no intention of allowing anything of the sort to happen.
Now if the rest of the universe would just cooperate.
; * * *
“Well, I’ve got some good news, or I’ve got some bad news. The only problem is I don’t know which it is.”
“Been a bit of that goin’ around, Vinnie.”
Floyd Allenby’s weathered face was as unwaveringly determined as ever, but he’d lost a lot of weight. The promised Manticoran naval support was three weeks overdue, and they hadn’t heard a single word from Harvey Eldbrand to explain where it was. By his most optimistic estimate, Frontier Fleet had had plenty of time to respond to the escaped Tallulah freighter’s demands for SLN and OFS to restore the situation in Swallow. In fact, by any reasonable estimate, Frontier Fleet should have arrived at least five days ago. According to some hints picked up from their “discussions” with Alton Parkman and Sheila Hampton, his chief of staff, Frontier Fleet was in the process of reorganizing its deployments. That might explain the delay, but nothing was going to delay it much longer.
“S’pose you’d best tell us what it is so’s we can all figure out which it is,” he continued, twitching his head at the other men and women in the conference room. Jason MacGruder sat at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by Joyce Allenby and Truman Rodriguez, and his own sister, Gemma, sat at Floyd’s right hand.
“Well,” Frugoni said, “according to Nathan, Dumber Ass has picked up a batch of hyper footprints. They don’t have military grade sensors up there, so they can’t be certain, but when sixteen ships come over the alpha wall at the same time and head in-system, I think it’s probably safe to say they aren’t a batch of freighters that all just happened to arrive at the same time.”