Quam was unique in his writing because he actually took a stance on the issue. The rest of the newsies focused on rumor and innuendo, ignoring the microeconomic impact to cover instead their projected fears for the future. Articles whined about how unbridled warfare like this could make the Basalt economy grind to a halt. The fact that it had ground to a halt for the affected families was something relegated to the "soft 'n fluffy" parts of media reports.
Gypsy immediately stepped up the Ff W's rhetoric, decrying some attacks, usurping others. He also picked a variety of targets for FfW operations. Gypsy was sharp enough to choose targets where he could minimize the sort of impact Quam had complained about. Toward this end he authorized a lot of transportation and vehicle hits. The approaches to a couple of bridges got blown and then repair vehicles were destroyed, maximizing inconvenience for all without putting anyone out of a job.
What it took Bernard some time to figure out was that this new wave of strikes, which came very thick over the next three days, might have hurt Emblyn a little, but they really damaged the government. Officials had been standing up to say that they would protect the citizenry, but all of a sudden attacks were happening all over the place. Because they came off at night, people tended to stay home, which put a damper on most of the nightlife economy. Companies that did not believe the government could protect them took to posting their hours of business very prominently. As one entrepreneur put it, "We can remodel and rebuild, but we don't want to do so after funerals."
The Germayne government immediately authorized overtime for constables and the Public Safety Department. Officials said they'd sent requests for assistance to The Republic's Planetary Legate, Tawanna Thurin. She said she'd forwarded the pleas but had heard nothing back. I doubted the messages sent were anywhere close to reaching Terra, so nothing like Stone's Lament was going to show up to set things to rights. News stories noted that new taxes would have to be levied to pay for the overtime, but that was a black cloud hovering on the horizon.
Society did begin to crack openly under the pressure. Charity, which had spiked when the LIT campaign began, started to tail off as people hoarded things against the uncertainty of the future. There was no way they could know if they would be the next victim, so they weren't donating money and, since they really didn't want to expose themselves to danger, many stopped volunteering their time.
Moreover, because the rich in the Heights had been the target of an attack, they resented the terrorists and felt that since, clearly, none of their "own" would be part of such a group, it was war on their class and they sought to retain what they already possessed. The lower classes began to keep to themselves, with each cultural population segregating itself to its own neighborhoods and businesses.
Even Ring Emblyn's charity efforts shrank. He focused on taking care of the people who had worked for him and had been subject to attack. This still played well in the press, but instead of folks thanking him for his generosity, it was folks in his employ thanking him for his "loyalty." While that's not a bad trait, it does draw a line betweenus andthem , and thethems often don't like being on the outside.
About the only person who came out smelling like a rose was Bianca. The Basalt Foundation moved quickly, cutting deals to supply people with everything they needed to survive the sudden loss of their jobs-regardless of cultural heritage. While the absolute numbers were relatively small, every single one of them was a wonderful media filler piece. Smiling faces on folks laden with armsful of clothing, toiletries and treats, singing the praises of Bianca Germayne, played very well, especially when counterpointed against local government officials saying that everyone would have to tighten their belts and pull together until the crisis passed.
Gypsy realized the full import of the attack on me. He already knew I'd betrayed Bernard's plans to him, but that my usefulness as a double agent was limited. We had to assume that, one way or another, Bernard would be keeping tabs on me. My job, then, was to keep out of sight to make him use resources to find me, or become very visible. Gypsy, by having others watch me, would be able to pick up on Bernard's agents, identify them, and set them up for neutralization.
Either strategy would work for Gypsy, but both of them meant I was out of play. It made sense, since I'd been compromised. Gypsy, based on target selections, was keeping with the overall LIT plan, but I hated not being informed about what was going on. Gypsy was, after all, a mercenary. If Emblyn started pressuring him from above and Catford from below, he might decide to kick things into high gear and a lot of things would be laid waste that didn't need to be. In essence, with Alba vanishing from Bernard's camp, and my being ostracized from Emblyn's camp, the folks most likely to apply the brakes were gone.
I opted for the plan that would make me very visible. I had to because going to ground meant I'd have even less of a chance of knowing what was going on. In addition, having me wandering about would give Bernard more to think about, and that might slow him down. It would also keep Niemeyer happy since he didn't have to go digging for me. Lastly, by being visible, it was possible for me to make reports.
The dead-drop I'd used with Alba was not the only one I employed. Prior to coming to Basalt I was given information on a number of dead-drops that The Republic had already established on the world. While it might have seemed unusual for a government to be setting up procedures that allowed their agents to spy on the citizenry, in essence they were just planning ahead for the eventuality that an undercover operation might have to be run some day.
When I reached Basalt I scouted the sites and then made a wrong-number call that activated a run on the notification target. Basically I made a call to someone, asked for Mr. Arkadis, and was told there was no one of that name there. I said, "This must have been his old number." They said, "We've had this number for twenty years." I said, "Oh, my mistake. Happens when you're older than The Republic." Whoever I spoke to would relay that conversation to others, then orders would be given to check a drop target. No one had a clue as to who I was, and I didn't know who they were, and that kept us all safe.
The reports I'd sent back had been pretty basic: just identifying people, trends and so on. I had little time for in-depth analysis, but I did note that both sides seemed to have enough people for a decent shooting war. In my latest report I noted that unless Bernard was able to activate the Basalt Militia, the edge in military strength would go to Emblyn. The losses sustained at the Palace coupled with Alba's disappearance put Bernard at a severe disadvantage. I would have liked a company of Lament on planet to use to curb him when, not if, push came to shove.
I put that into my last report. I had no idea if any of my reports had even made it off Basalt.
I left the Grand Germayne and made some basic checks to see if I was being followed. I didn't think I was, but aborted my run to the dead-drop. Something didn't feel right, and I wasn't certain if it was external or internal.
Instead of doing my ghostly business, I headed to one of the Basalt Foundation relief centers. It would have been easy to talk myself into believing I was going there to get a feel for the social impact of LIT, but I knew that was a lie. I was playing puppetmaster, and things were going along too well. I didn't have a connection to the people being hurt. It could have been a residual effect of reading Quam's stories, but whatever the cause I did want to see what was going on at the center.
And I wanted to see, firsthand, how Bianca handled the enormous pressure she was under.
I asked for Bianca and was directed to the large commercial kitchen where meals were being prepared for later in the day. The dining hall could seat five hundred at a time, and a schedule on the wall showed they had four seatings spaced forty-five minutes apart. People had already lined up for the first seating, and they looked to be a mix from all cultures and almost all social classes.
As foretold, Bianca was in the kitchen and so was Quam. Even Snookums was there, sitting on a stainless-steel table. He had a little chef's mushroom-cap on his head an
d growled when he saw me.
Quam, who was chopping black mushrooms with a nimble facility flicked a sliver of fungus to the dog, which it snapped out of the air and quieted down.
Bianca smiled. "Sam, what brings you here? Do I see the last of a bruise on your face? What happened?" I smiled and brushed my fingertips over my cheek. "Walked into a wall." I refrained from opening my shirt, where my chest was still a mess, because I didn't think she'd believe that the wall had retaliated by walking all over me. "They're keeping you very busy, aren't they?" Quam laughed. "And we thought you capable of seeing more than the obvious, Sam. Aprons are over there, gloves next. Mix these mushrooms into that stuffing, then fill those game hens."
"Yes, Commander." I complied with his order and began to work. Bianca wandered in and out, not so much giving orders as just encouraging people to work together. Quam explained that half the staff were volunteers like me, drawn from the clientele, and the others, who handled most of the cooking, were students at a local culinary school, or apprentices with some of the restaurants that had been put out of business.
I frowned. "If the attacks on IceKing put those places out of business, how is it that the shelter here has food?" Quam smiled. "Fine restaurants will not serve food that has survived a bomb blast. It still eats fine, but be careful. If you feel any shrapnel in the stuffing, set it aside."
I thought he was kidding, then I noticed a couple of pieces of jagged metal in a small pile on the table. They looked like pieces of nails, which would be in keeping with nail bombs. While such devices were fairly easy to make and therefore quite common, the nails generally indicated something that was meant as an antipersonnel weapon.
Bernard, while using my game plan, was improvising on the means of execution.
"What's the reaction been to your pieces about the FfW hits?" "They vary from sympathetic outrage, to those who want to know why I'm covering that instead of puking their press release about some new food product into my reports." He glanced up.
"You read them. What did you think?" "Pretty brave." I pointed to the nails. "No telling when someone on the other side might take umbrage and make you a target."
"True, but how can I let that stop me? My job is to write about food and life on Basalt. These strikes are affecting both. Moreover, so many people here are willing to turn a blind eye to things, and yet that is not what our parents and grandparents did in establishing The Republic. If I don't stand up against tyranny the way they did, am I a worthy heir to this life?" "You clearly think the answer is, ‘no." ' "And you don't?" He brandished the knife. "You can say you don't, but you do, Sam. You'd not have given money to the Foundation if you didn't. You'd not be here helping."
"I gave money because that was our deal, Quam. I'm helping because you have a knife." I shrugged. "And even if you're right, I don't know that it's worth my life."
"I know it's worth mine, but mine is not in jeopardy." The fat man smiled ruefully. "I am Quam. Hard to forget, but easy to dismiss. When theJournal decides that with no nightlife there need be no Quam, I will fade. Even though my words should be taken seriously, they aren't and won't be."
"You don't think so?" He laughed and his jowls quivered. "In this madhouse world? No. The government has made people angry, and likewise Emblyn has made them angry. Now, are the angry people a part of the government striking at enemies, or angry people striking at enemies, or hunks of both? The latter has to be true, because while angry people might protest and even riot, not many can field BattleMechs."
"That's a point the press seems to have missed."
"No, it's a point that the Constabulary has asked the media to back away from. They don't want to start a panic." He waved the knife toward the dining area. "Two weeks ago, two sittings would be almost full. Now we turn people away. There already is a panic."
"More astute observations."
"I'll give you one more to mull while you stuff those birds, Sam. This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. The 'Mechs that attacked the Palace aren't the last we'll see on Basalt.
When the real shooting starts, it will be bad. Instead of feeding people, this place will be turned into a charnel house. And if that doesn't make you lose your appetite, nothing ever will."
34
That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
- Old saying
Or it just leaves us weaker for the next thing that wants to kill us.
And the next thing. And the next thing.
- Mason Dunne
Manville, Capital District
Basalt
Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere
22 February 3133
I stuck around and helped serve the meals I'd prepared. I guess, in part, it was because I was feeling guilty over the trouble I'd instigated. The people who came in were grateful for the food, and many were the offers to help clean up. In fact, the last seating helped clean the room, stacked chairs, and there was no segregation. A cynic might have noted that trouble makes brothers of us all, but I tended to think that some people were able to put aside petty and benign differences to help each other.
That was what I would have expected from reading about Basalt, and here I saw it. Bernard might be pushing divisive ideas, but his sister was unifying people.
Once things had been cleaned up, the staff sat down and had leftovers, of which there was not much. I did get a bit of one of the game hens and the stuffing. There was no shrapnel in it, which would have been the only thing that could have marred perfection. Not only could Quam write about food, but he could cook as well.
I looked at him. "You cook so well, why don't you have a restaurant of your own?" He laughed at me. "Your innocence is refreshing, Sam."
Bianca smiled and got up from our table. "I've heard this lecture before, so I'll go get us some dessert."
Quam waited for her to leave, then interlaced his fingers and settled them over the curve of his middle. "In running a restaurant, one has to give lots of orders, which I can do, and prepare many meals, which I can do. What I cannot do, however, is subject my genius to the know-nothing-but- ready-to-share-their-ignorance customers and critics who will come to my establishment. People who dine out want two things: good food anddifferent food. They will hunt down the latter before they settle for the former. I could create a menu of the best dishes ever created on Basalt or in The Republic, and people would still quest after thenew thinking, quite wrongly, it would be better."
I gave him a smile. "Well, itcould be better, couldn't it?" Snookums, seated on a stool beside Quam, growled.
The man hushed the dog. "He's innocent, remember?" Quam regarded me with half-lidded eyes. "On a good day, on the chef'sbest day, perhaps. That is immaterial, however, because there is a second, greater reason to avoid it: I would be bored. Doing the same thing, day in and day out, even allowing for innovation, would kill me. Better to venture in the wilderness seeking that magical meal that approaches the divine than to dish up Olympian fare every day. I mean, Sam, wouldyou want that sort of wretched, stable life?" I hesitated. There were times when the idea of settling down with Janella did strike me as perfect, but more often I liked the challenges of what I did. The hunt, as he described it, was fun, and the victory, better. I had the luxury, perhaps illusory, of believing what I did helped people. Quam could make that same claim and, on a daily basis, he had a stronger case than I did.
I shook my head. "No, I guess not. Still, it would be great to have a place where one could get food this good when I wanted to."
"And it would be fun to create it, but that is a job for others." The fat man dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin as Bianca returned. "And each of us must do that to which we are best suited, lest our efforts be wasted."
I won't describe dessert because I don't want to think about it anymore-being as how the chances of tasting something that good again are nil. After dessert, I helped clean up, then took a long walk back to the Grand Germayne. I checked a couple of times to see
if I had a tail, but didn't detect anyone. I hoped that any agents Bernard or Gypsy had covering me had enjoyed dinner, at the very least.
As I'd left the building, Bianca and others had said they hoped I'd be back. Part of me wanted to return, but I knew I couldn't afford that luxury. While I might have been able to help there a little, I'd also attract attention to Bianca's operation. Bernard or Emblyn might decide to hit the place just to make a point to me or to just kill me. I didn't want to be responsible for that sort of thing.
Moreover, I reminded myself, I was a Ghost Knight. I had to maintain a certain detachment. If I got too close to things, I would not be able to act in the manner that was vital to dealing with Basalt's problem. I needed to be clear-headed and impartial, so I could play the wolves off against each other and, hopefully, control the damage they were doing. I had to remain cool and aloof, so there would be no more charity work for me.
My other job came first, and if I failed at it, all the meals the Foundation served wouldn't amount to a hill of beans.
At the hotel, the desk clerk caught my eye and handed me a message. It had been sealed in one of the hotel's envelopes. I opened it and saw a simple message: The Bar. E. I refolded it, half wondered why Elle wasn't waiting for me in my room as she had before, and walked into the bar.
I found her at a corner table studiously avoiding the glances from a group of men at the bar.
The guys immediately checked me out and watched. I figured a number of them had made a run at her and had been shot down. They were waiting to see me crash and burn, so without even a word, I slid onto the bench beside her and gave her a huge kiss. A slap would amuse them, fingers in my hair would annoy them-win-win in my book.
BattleTech : Mechwarrior - Dark Age 01 - Ghost War (2002) Page 26