Heirs of Empire fe-3

by David Weber

  For example, he knew Gus was getting uncomfortably close to Francine. Gus didn’t know it yet, but Jefferson did, and so Bishop Hilgemann was driving the Sword from the Church of the Armageddon. The excesses of zealotry must be forever anathema to the godly, and she was horrified by the thought that such misguided souls might be numbered among her flock. They must recognize the error of their ways or be cut off from the body of the faithful, for they had embraced a fundamental error. Hatred for the Achuultani and all other works of the Anti-Christ was every godly person’s duty, but that hate must not be extended to the leadership which stood against the foe. Rather the errors of that leadership must be addressed nonviolently, by prayer and remonstrance, lest all the undeniable good it had achieved be lost, as well.

  It was all very touching, and it had Gus a bit confused, since he didn’t know about the conduits through which she directed those same zealots. What Gus hadn’t quite grasped yet was that the Sword no longer required the infrastructure of the Church. No doubt Gus would figure it out, but by then it should be too late to find any institutional links to Bishop Hilgemann.

  * * *

  Security Councilor van Gelder nodded to the Marine sentry as the elevator deposited him on an upper floor of White Tower. He walked down the hall and knocked on the frame of an open door.

  “Busy?” he asked when the man behind the desk looked up.

  “Not terribly.” Lieutenant Governor Jefferson rose courteously, waving to a chair, then sat again as van Gelder seated himself. “What’s up?”

  “Horus still on Birhat?”

  “Well, yes.” Jefferson leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin, and raised his eyebrows. “He’s not scheduled to return until tomorrow night. Why? Has something urgent come up?”

  “You might say that,” van Gelder said. “I’ve finally got a break on the Sword of God.”

  “You have?” Jefferson’s chair snapped upright, and van Gelder smiled. He’d thought Jefferson would be glad to hear it.

  “Yes. You know how hard it’s been to break their security. Even when we manage to take one or two of them alive, they’re so tightly compartmented we can’t ID anyone outside the cell they come from. But I’ve finally managed to get one of my people inside. I haven’t reported it yet—we’re playing her cover on a strict need-to-know basis—but she’s just been tapped to serve as a link in the courier chain to her cell’s main intelligence pipeline.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful, Gus!” Jefferson cocked his head, considering the implications, then rubbed his blotter gently. “How soon do you expect this to pay off?”

  “Within the next few weeks,” van Gelder replied, smothering a small, familiar spurt of exasperation. Jefferson couldn’t help it any more than any other bureaucratic type, but even the best of them had a sort of institutional impatience that irritated intelligence officers immensely. They couldn’t appreciate the life-and-death risks his field people ran, and a “why can’t we move quicker on this?” mind-set seemed to go with their jobs.

  “Good. Good! And you want to report this directly to Horus?”

  “Yes. As I say, I’ve been running this agent very carefully. I’m the only one in the shop who knows everything about the job, and I just got her report this afternoon. Horus and I set the concept up several months ago, and I need to let him know what’s happening before I brief anyone on my staff.”

  “I see. Do you have a formal report for him, then?”

  “Not a formal one, but—” van Gelder reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small security file “—these are my briefing notes.”

  “I see.” Jefferson regarded the security file thoughtfully. Such files were keyed to randomly generated implant access codes when they were sealed. Any attempt to open them without those codes would reduce the chips within them to useless slag.

  “Well, as I say, he won’t be back until tomorrow night. Is this really urgent? I mean—” he waved his hand apologetically at van Gelder’s slightly affronted expression “—are we facing a time pressure problem so we have to get the word to him immediately?”

  “It’s not exactly a crisis, but I’d like to brief him as soon as possible. I don’t want to be too far from the office in case something breaks, but maybe I should mat-trans out to Birhat and catch him there. If he agrees, I could brief Colin and Jiltanith, too.”

  “That might be a good idea,” Jefferson mused, then paused with an arrested air. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think we ought to get it to him ASAP. It’s the middle of the night in Phoenix right now, but I’m already scheduled to mat-trans out tomorrow morning their time. Could I drop your notes off with him, or is he going to need a personal briefing?”

  “We do need to discuss it,” van Gelder said thoughtfully, “but the basic information’s in the notes… In fact, it might help if he had them before we sat down to talk.”

  “Then I’ll take them out with me, if you like.”

  “Fine.” Van Gelder handed over the file with a grin. “Never thought I’d be using a courier quite this secure!”

  “You flatter me.” Jefferson slid the file into his own pocket. “Does Horus have the file access code?”

  “No. Here—” Van Gelder flipped his feed into Jefferson’s computer and used it to relay the code to the Lieutenant Governor, then wiped it from the computer’s memory. “I hope you don’t talk in your sleep,” he cautioned.

  “I don’t,” Jefferson assured him, rising to escort him to the door. He paused to shake his hand. “Again, let me congratulate you. This is a tremendous achievement. I’m sure there are going to be some very relieved people when they get this information.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We’ve got another one, Admiral.”

  Ninhursag MacMahan grimaced and took the chip from Captain Jabr. She dropped it into the reader on her desk, and the two of them watched through their neural feeds as the report played itself to them. When it ended, she sighed and shook her head, trying to understand how the slaughter of nineteen power service employees possibly served the “holy” ends of the Sword of God.

  “I wish we’d gotten at least one of them,” she said.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Jabr rubbed his bearded jaw, dark eyes hard. “I would have liked to entertain those gentlemen myself.”

  “Now, now, Sayed. We can’t have you backsliding to your bloodthirsty Bedouin ancestors. Not that you might not be onto something.” She drummed on her desk for a moment, then shrugged. “Pass it on to Commander Wadisclaw. It sounds like part of his bailiwick.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Captain Jabr carried the chip away, and Ninhursag rubbed weary eyes, propped her chin in cupped palms, and stared sightlessly at the wall.

  The “Sword of God’s” escalating attacks worried her. One or two, like the one on Gus, had hurt them badly, and even the ones that weren’t doing that much damage—except, she amended with a wince, to the people who died—achieved the classic terrorist goal of proving they could strike targets despite the authorities. Open societies couldn’t protect every power station, transit terminal, and pedestrian belt landing, but anyone with the IQ of a rock knew that, and at least this time humanity seemed to have learned its lesson. Not even the intellectuals were suggesting the Sword might, for all its deplorable choice of tactics, have “a legitimate demand” to give it some sort of sick quasirespectability. Yet as long as these animals were willing to select targets virtually at random, no analyst could predict where they’d strike next, and they were killing people she was supposed to protect. Which was why they had to get someone inside the Sword if they ever expected to stop them.

  She winced again as her roving thoughts reminded her of the single agent they had gotten inside. Janice Coatsworth had been an FBI field agent before the Siege, and Gus had been delighted to get her. She’d been one of his star performers—one of his “aces” as he called them—and she’d died the same day he had. Somehow she’d been made by the Sword, an
d they’d dumped what was left of her body on Gus’s lawn the same day they killed him, his wife, and two of their four children. Four of his personal security staff had died, as well, two of them shielding his surviving children with their own bodies.

  Ninhursag’s eyes were colder and harder by far than Captain Jabr’s had been. If anything could be called a “legitimate” terrorist target, it was certainly the head of the opposing security force, but she’d been as astounded as any by the attack. Indeed, the van Gelder murders had shaken everyone into a reevaluation of the Sword’s capabilities, for Gus’s security had been tight. Penetrating it had taken meticulous planning.

  She chewed her lip and frowned over a familiar, nagging question. Why was the Sword so … spotty? One day they carried out a meaningless massacre of defenseless power workers and left clues all over the countryside; on another they executed a precision attack on a high-security target and left the forensic people damn-all. She knew the Sword was intricately compartmented, but did it have a split personality, too? And where had a bunch of yahoos who could be as clumsy as that power station attack gotten a tight, cellular organization in the first place? Anyone who could put that together could choose more effective targets, and hit them more cleanly, too.

  She sighed and put the thought aside once more. So far, they had no idea how the Sword was organized. For all she knew, the meaningless attacks were the work of some splinter group or faction. For that matter, they might actually be the work of some totally different organization which was simply hiding behind the Sword while it pursued an agenda all its own! They needed a better look inside to answer those kinds of questions, and that was up to the folks on Earth, where the Sword operated. Gus had managed it once, and since his death, Lawrence Jefferson had managed to break no less than three of its cells. It was unfortunate that none of them had led to any others—indeed, it seemed likely they were among the more inept members of their murderous brotherhood or they wouldn’t have been so easy to crack—but they were a start.

  And, she reminded herself, at least the slaughter of Gus’s family had given them a reason to beef up Horus’s security at White Tower without arousing their real enemy’s suspicions.

  * * *

  “Sweet mother of God!” Gerald Hatcher blurted. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m not!” Ninhursag snarled back. “I just thought pretending I was would be really hilarious!”

  She quivered with frightened anger Colin understood only too well, and he touched her shoulder, watching her relax with a hissing sigh before he turned his attention back to Hatcher’s hologram. Vlad Chernikov also attended by holo image from his office aboard Orbital Yard Seventeen, but Tsien was present with Colin and Ninhursag in the flesh.

  “Sorry, ’Hursag,” Hatcher muttered. “It’s just that— Well, Jesus, how did you expect us to react?”

  “About the same way I did,” Ninhursag admitted with a crooked grin. Then real humor flickered in her eyes. “Which, I might add, you did. You should’ve heard what I said when Dahak told me!”

  “But there is no question?” Tsien’s deep voice was harder than usual, for it was his files which had been penetrated this time.

  “None, Star Marshal,” Dahak replied. “I have checked my findings no less than five times with identical results.”

  “Shit.” Colin rubbed the fatigue lines which had formed in the long, dreary months since his children died. After almost a year and a half they were still playing catch-up. Ninhursag and Lawrence Jefferson had managed to pick off a few Sword of God cells, a few score terrorists had been killed in shoot-outs with security forces when they’d struck at guarded sites, and they’d identified exactly seven spies in their military.

  And each of those spies had been dead by the time they found him.

  “The bastards have us penetrated six ways to Sunday,” he said through his fingers, tugging on his nose while his other hand pushed the chip of Ninhursag’s report in an aimless circle.

  “Yes and no, Colin,” Dahak said. “True, we are uncovering evidence of past penetration, yet we are also clearing a progressively higher number of senior personnel of suspicion. I cannot, of course, be certain that we have sealed all breaches in the Bia System, yet recall that I am now monitoring all hypercom traffic between Bia and Sol as well as all datanets in this system. And while I cannot assure you that no information is being transmitted via courier, ONI now maintains permanent surveillance of all visitors from Earth.”

  “Yeah, but it looks like we just found out we didn’t get the door locked till after the barn burned down!”

  “Perhaps and perhaps not.” For a moment Tsien sounded so much like Dahak Colin suspected him of deliberate humor, but that wasn’t Tao-ling’s style.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, Colin, that this particular piece of hardware, while undoubtedly dangerous, is of limited utility to whoever has it.”

  “What do—” Hatcher began, then stopped. “Yeah, you’ve got something, Tao-ling. What the hell can they do with it even if they’ve got it?”

  “I would not invest too much confidence in that belief, Admiral Hatcher,” Dahak said, “but my own analysis does tentatively support it.”

  “But how did they get their hands on it in the first place?” Vlad asked, for he’d arrived a few moments late for the initial briefing.

  “We’re not positive,” Ninhursag answered. “All Dahak’s discovered for certain is that there’s at least one more copy of the plans for the new gravitonic warhead than there should be. We don’t know where it is, who has it, or even how long whoever stole it has had it in his possession.”

  “I believe we may venture a conjecture on the last point,” Tsien disagreed. “Dahak has examined the counter in the original datachip from Weapons Development’s master file, Vlad.” Vlad’s holo image nodded understanding. Each Fleet security chip was equipped with a built-in counter to record the numbers of copies which had been made of it, and while the counter could be wiped, it could not be altered. “According to our records, there should be ten copies of the plans—including the original chip—and all ten of those have now been accounted for. However, a total of ten copies were made of the original chip, and we do not know where that eleventh copy is.

  “On the other hand, that original has been locked in the security vault at BuShips since the day all authorized copies were made, and none of the external or internal security systems show any sign of tampering. I therefore believe the additional copy was made at the same time as the authorized ones.”

  “Oh, shit,” Hatcher moaned. “That was—what, six years ago?”

  “Six and a half,” Ninhursag confirmed. “And while I wouldn’t care to bet my life on it, I’d say Tao-ling is probably right. Particularly since a certain Senior Fleet Captain Janushka made the authorized copies. Two years ago, Commodore Janushka, who was then assigned to the Sol System as part of the Stepmother team, died of a ‘cerebral hemorrhage.’ ”

  She grimaced, and the others snorted. A properly pulsed power surge in a neural feed implant produced something only the closest examination could distinguish from a normal cerebral hemorrhage. But pulsed surges like that couldn’t happen by accident, and an ME with no reason to suspect foul play might very well opt for the natural explanation.

  “I see.” Vlad pursed his lips for a moment, then gave a Slavic shrug. “On that basis, I am inclined to share your conclusion as to the timing, Tao-ling. Yet this weapon is an extremely sophisticated piece of hardware. Building it would require either military components or a civilian workshop run by someone thoroughly familiar with Imperial technology.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Colin said, “but whoever we’re up against had the reach and sophistication to sabotage Imperial Terra—unless anyone cares to postulate two separate enemies with this level of penetration?” Clearly no one wished to so postulate, and he smiled grimly. “I think we have to assume Mister X wouldn’t have stolen it if he didn’t believe he could
produce it.”

  “True.” Hatcher was coming back on balance, and his voice was calmer and more thoughtful. “But Tao-ling’s still right about its utility. They can blow up a planet with it, but if that’s all they had in mind, six years plus is plenty of time to build the thing—assuming they could build it at all—and it’s also plenty long enough to have used it.”

  “Precisely,” Tsien agreed. “They undoubtedly had some plan for its use, either actual or threatened, else they had not stolen the plans, but what that use may be eludes me. The conspirators must be human—there were far too few Narhani contacts with humans for any of them to have penetrated our security so deeply so long ago—so the destruction of Earth would be an act of total madness. If, on the other hand, their target is here on Birhat, any of our much smaller gravitonic warheads or even a simple thermonuclear device would satisfy their needs. Nor is a weapon of this power required to destroy any conceivable deep space installation.”

  “What about Narhan?” Ninhursag asked quietly, and Tsien frowned.

  “That, Ninhursag, is a very ugly thought,” he conceded after a moment. “Again, I can see no sane reason to destroy the planet—that sounds much more like something the Sword of God would wish to attempt—yet Narhan would seem a more likely target than either Earth or Birhat.”

  “God, all we need is for Mister X to be tied in with a bunch of crazies like the Sword of God!” Colin groaned.

  “On the surface, that appears unlikely,” Dahak said. “The pattern of ‘Mister X’s’ operations indicates a long-term plan which, while criminal, is rational. The Sword of God, on the other hand, is fundamentally irrational. Moreover, as Admiral Hatcher has pointed out, they have had ample time to destroy Narhan if they possessed the weapon. It is possible ‘Mister X’ might attempt to capitalize upon the activities of the Sword of God or even to influence those activities, but his ultimate goals are quite different from their xenophobic nihilism.”