Shadow of Saganami

by David Weber

  He could see why Westman's messenger had told him this was one of the planet's more popular scenic attractions. Of course, most sensible tourists settled for making the trip from the capital in a few minutes of comfortable air car travel. Only the genuine lunatics insisted on doing it in the "authentic Montana way," and Harahap was darkly certain that the livery stable operators who rented them horses for the trip probably hurt themselves laughing while they watched the off-planet idiots go riding off.

  From his present height, Harahap could see for what had to be at least a hundred kilometers across the gorge of the New Missouri River, and despite his aching buttocks and thighs and the grim reality of the errand which brought him here, he felt more than a touch of outright awe. The New Missouri was the second-longest river on Montana, and over the eons, it had carved a path through the New Sapphire Mountains that dwarfed anything Harahap had ever seen. Westman's representative had informed him proudly that the New Missouri Gorge was almost twice the size of something called the Grand Canyon back on Old Earth, and it was certainly more than enough to make Damien Harahap feel small and ephemeral.

  He pulled out a holo camera and began obediently taking pictures like any proper nature lover. The camera was part of his tourist's cover, but he'd already decided this was one set of pictures he was actually going to keep when he heard the rattle of stones from the higher slopes behind him. He lowered the camera and looked around casually as Stephen Westman rode down the slope on a tall, roan gelding.

  "I must say," Harahap said as the Montanan drew up beside him and dismounted with the fluid grace of a lifetime's practice, "this is a much more spectacular backdrop than our previous meeting enjoyed."

  "It is that," Westman agreed, blue eyes looking past his visitor to take in the spectacular view once more. It was a sight he never tired of, although sometimes it took the awe of an off-worlder's first glimpse of it to remind him just how wonderful it was.

  "I'm not sure all this isolation was really necessary, though," Harahap continued. "And while I'd never want to sound critical, I might point out that standing here on the edge of this cliff makes us rather vulnerable to any directional microphones in the area."

  "It does—or would, if there were any," Westman replied, and smiled thinly. "To be honest, Mr. 'Firebrand,' one reason I chose it was so I could be positive you'd come alone. And while I'd never want to sound ominous, I might point out that standing here on the edge of this cliff makes you a rather easy target for the fellows with pulse rifles sitting out there amongst the shrubbery to watch my back."

  "I see." Harahap considered the Montanan's smiling face calmly, then nodded. "So it was less about security from the authorities' sensor systems than about getting me nicely out in the open."

  "Yep," Westman acknowledged. "Not that I really think you're working for Suttles or the Manties. I know Chief Marshal Bannister pretty damned well, and this wouldn't be his style. And I don't think the Manties've had time to get around to sending their agents after me this way. But you could have been working for the Rembrandters. Not very likely, but it was possible. Matter of fact, you still could be."

  "As an agent provocateur?" Harahap chuckled. "I approve of your caution. But if I were working for Vaandrager or Van Dort, the pulse cannon–armed air cars would already be sweeping down upon us."

  "And crashing in the Gorge," Westman said with a smile. Harahap cocked an eyebrow at him, and the Montanan shrugged. "I invested quite a bit of money in the necessary tools before I went underground, Firebrand. Including some rather nice Solly shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. They may be a mite out of date, and I don't have many of them, but they work just fine, and I expect they should deal with anything short of a modern assault shuttle. I sort of figured this would be a good place to trot some of them out."

  "Then it's fortunate for both of us that I don't work for the RTU." Harahap returned the other man's smile while he considered whether or not Westman was telling him the truth. On balance, and especially in light of how smoothly he'd carried out his strike on the Trade Union's spaceport enclave, Harahap was inclined to believe him.

  "But if you're not working for the Rembrandters or the Manties," Westman observed, "that still leaves the question of exactly who you are working for."

  "I told you the last time we spoke. Of course, we didn't have a name then, but we're the same people. And we've decided that calling ourselves the Central Liberation Committee has a nice ring to it."

  Westman's lips quirked, mirroring the flash of amusement in his eyes, but Harahap wasn't fooled. This was an extremely intelligent man, whatever his prejudices, and he understood that anyone who chose to involve himself in this sort of game had to have motives of his own. Motives which might or might not have any particular correspondence to the motives he said he had.

  "We've finally started getting ourselves effectively organized," the Gendarmerie captain continued, "and our scam to extract operating funds from the RTU worked out even better than we'd anticipated." As he'd hoped, Westman's smile grew a little broader at the reference to the supposed embezzlement from the Trade Union's coffers. The idea seemed to amuse him even more than it had Nordbrandt. "We've also managed to locate a moderately corruptible Solly source in the Meyers System for weapons and other hardware."

  "You have," Westman said with no particular emphasis.

  "We have. I'm not going to try to fool you, Mr. Westman. Like your SAMs, these aren't the very latest weapons available. In fact, they're probably from a planetary militia's armory somewhere. But they've been thoroughly reconditioned, and they're as good as or better than anything your government has. The communications and surveillance equipment is newer and better than that—the latest Solly civilian equipment. Probably still not quite as good as the Manty military will have, but light-years better than anything you could obtain locally."

  "And you're prepared to make all of this available to me out of the goodness of your hearts, of course."

  "Actually, to a large extent, that's exactly right," Harahap said, meeting the other man's searching gaze with the utter sincerity that was one of his most important professional assets. "Oh, we're not totally altruistic. Noble and generous, of course, but not totally altruistic."

  Westman snorted in amusement, and Harahap smiled. Then he let his expression sober once more.

  "Seriously, Mr. Westman. Probably eighty or ninety percent of the Central Committee's motivations are a combination of altruism and self-interest. The other ten percent come under the heading of pure self-interest, but, then, we could say the same about you, couldn't we?"

  He held Westman's gaze until the other man nodded, then went on with a small shrug.

  "We don't want to see this annexation go through any more than you do. Even if Tonkovic manages to hold out for every constitutional guarantee in the galaxy, there's no reason to believe a government as far away as the Manticore System would feel any particular obligation to honor them. Especially not once they've gotten their own military forces and domestic collaborators set up here at the local level. We don't much care for Rembrandt and the RTU, either, and you and I both know who's going to wind up skimming all the cream off the local economy if this thing goes through. So we've got plenty of reasons of our own to want to throw all the grit we can into the works. But having said that, I'd be less than honest if I didn't say that at least some of the Central Committee's members think they see an opportunity for their own star systems' investors and shippers to help themselves to a larger slice of the pie here in the Cluster if we can take the RTU down a peg."

  "Which suggests that even if we get rid of the Manties and the Rembrandters, we're likely to see someone else trying to move in on the RTU's operation," Westman said sourly.

  "It's an imperfect universe," Harahap pointed out gently. "And any political or economic system is dynamic, constantly changing. Look at it this way—you may not get a perfect resolution out of removing Manticore and the RTU from the equation, but you will have gotte
n rid of the two devils you know about. And whatever new changes someone else may try to impose, you'll be starting fresh, from a level playing field, if you want to keep them off of Montana."

  Westman made a noncommittal sound. He stood gazing off over the Gorge, and Harahap let the silence linger for a minute or two. Then he cleared his throat. Westman looked at him, and he flipped his shoulders in a small shrug.

  "The bottom line is that we all want at least some of the same things . . . and none of us are likely to get any of them operating on our own. At the moment, the Manties and the governments committed to the annexation have all the central organization, all the information sharing, and all the firepower. Your operation showed imagination, careful planning, and ability. Those are exactly the qualities in you which attracted our attention in the first place. But they're also the qualities which are going to make squashing you a priority for the Manties. The same thing will be true of anyone who proves he's an effective opponent, and they're far better off—organizationally, not simply in terms of manpower and weapons—than we are. So if we want any realistic chance of keeping control of our own star systems and our own souls, we're going to have to come up with some sort of countervailing coordination of our own. That's what the Central Committee is trying to provide."

  "And just how widespread are your . . . call them 'local chapters'?" Westman asked after a moment.

  "We're still setting them up," Harahap admitted. "In addition to our conversations with you, we've been in contact with people from New Tuscany to Split. Some of them—like Agnes Nordbrandt, in Split—have already signed on with us," he continued, bending the truth just a bit. It wasn't much of a lie, after all. He hadn't been in contact with Nordbrandt since their conversation on Kornati, but he felt confident she would jump at the official offer of assistance when he made it.

  "Nordbrandt?" Westman's eyes sharpened with interest. "So she meant it when she said she was going underground, did she?"

  "Oh, yes, she certainly did," Harahap said. "Of course, I've been moving around a lot lately, but I met with her personally a couple of months ago, and we discussed her plans in some detail." Another small exaggeration there, but one Westman couldn't check. And one which should polish Harahap's credibility just a bit brighter. "Why? Have you heard anything more recent about her?"

  "It's over a hundred and twenty light-years from Montana to Split," Westman pointed out. "It takes even a dispatch boat two weeks to make the trip. The last I heard was over a month ago, when she resigned her parliamentary seat and announced she intended to oppose the annexation 'by other means.'" He shrugged. "If she's as serious as you're saying, I'm sure we'll be hearing more from her sometime soon."

  "No doubt," Harahap agreed. "From the plans she discussed with me, she should be making quite a splash. Maybe not as spectacular as that little trick you pulled off last week, perhaps, but enough to make the Manties sit up and take notice.

  "But the delay in the information loop that you just pointed out is one of the strongest arguments in favor of your accepting the Central Committee's assistance," he continued. "If all goes well, we'll be located in the Spindle System ourselves. That will put us right on top of the deliberations of the Constitutional Convention, and let us disseminate intelligence information as rapidly as it comes into our hands. And, let's face it, Spindle is probably where the Manties will set up their own administrative hub once they take over, so information is going to flow to the center much faster than it moves around the periphery."

  Westman nodded, his expression thoughtful. He turned to gaze back out over the Gorge one more time, removing his hat and letting the brisk, cool breeze ruffle his blond hair. A Terran hawk passed overhead, outspread wings riding the Gorge's thermals, and Harahap heard its shrill, piercing cry as it stooped upon some small prey. Finally, Westman turned back to him and extended his hand.

  "All right," he said. "Like you say, even if we all have our own individual motives, at least we all agree on the importance of smacking down Rembrandt and kicking the Manties' asses back out of the Cluster. I expect that's enough to go on with for now."

  "I don't think you'll regret this," Harahap lied.

  "If I do, it won't be the first thing in my life I've regretted," Westman said philosophically. The two of them shook hands firmly, and the Montanan put his Stetson back on his head. "And now that we're all such close friends," he continued, "I expect we need to be giving some thought to communications links." Harahap nodded, and Westman pursed his lips. "How long will you be on-planet?"

  "I really need to leave again as soon as possible," Harahap said frankly. "We've got other representatives working the far side of the Cluster, but I'm the contact person most of the people here on the southern border actually know."

  "I suppose that makes sense," the Montanan conceded. He thought some more, then shrugged. "I can have my communications people set up three or four separate secure channels by tomorrow morning," he said. "We're organized on a cell basis, and each channel will connect to a separate cell, so even if we lose one or two of them, you should still be able to contact me when you come back around."

  "Sounds good," Harahap agreed, impressed by the amount of thought Westman had clearly put into this entire operation. "And we'll have to make some arrangements for the arms delivery."

  "How soon can we expect them?"

  "That's a bit hard to say, exactly," Harahap said. "I'd guess we're probably looking at something between two and three months. The weapons are already in the pipeline, but we have to have them delivered. And, to be honest, I wasn't positive you were going to agree to associate yourself with us, so you're not the first stop on our delivery schedule." He grimaced. "Pity. It would have made a lot more sense to drop your consignment off on the way into the Cluster from Meyers. As it is, we'll have to loop back and catch you on the way home."

  "Well, I imagine we'll survive in the meantime," Westman said with a slow smile. "After all, I wasn't figuring on any outside support when I set things up. We'll be all right until your guns get here."

  "Good," Harahap said with another of his patented sincere smiles. "I'm really looking forward to working with you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "I think we have something here, Sir."

  Ansten FitzGerald sat up straight, pulling his attention away from the routine departmental reports he'd been scanning, and turned his command chair to face the tactical section.

  It was late at night by Hexapuma's internal clocks, and the Fourth Watch had the duty, which meant the assistant tactical officer ought by rights to be the officer of the watch. Normally, neither the captain nor the executive officer aboard a Manticoran warship stood a regularly scheduled watch, since, in theory, they were always on call. The communications officer, astrogator, tactical officer, and assistant tactical officer usually took the regularly scheduled watches, with Tactical getting the additional slot because of the Manticoran tradition that made Tactical the fast track to command. The theory was that if tactical officers were going to be promoted to command responsibilities faster than others, they needed the additional early experience.

  But rank had its privileges, and usually the junior officer on the totem pole got the least desirable—latest (or earliest, depending upon one's perspective)—watch assignment. Unfortunately, in this case, the ship's assistant tactical officer was a mere junior-grade lieutenant, just a bit too junior to be routinely saddled with full responsibility for an entire heavy cruiser and her company. Lieutenant Guthrie Bagwell might have been able to take the slot, but EW was still the odd man out, and some people being assigned as EWOs didn't really have that much watch-standing experience of their own. Besides, Guthrie was so overworked—even with d'Arezzo helping out—that he was on the same sort of "always on call" status as the captain and the XO. And rather than pull the assistant astrogator or assistant com officer, both of whom were senior-grade lieutenants, into the queue, FitzGerald had opted to take Fourth Watch himself, with Abigail Hearns at Tact
ical.

  He'd wondered at first if she was likely to take offense, to feel he didn't trust her competence. He'd also been prepared to live with her unhappiness if she had because, in the final analysis, he didn't trust her competence. Not because he doubted her ability or motivation, but because her actual experience remained so limited. The most capable officer in the universe still needed to be brought along carefully, needed the seasoning only experience could provide, if he was going to reach his full potential. And so Ansten FitzGerald had made a habit of bringing routine paperwork to the bridge with him and burying himself in it while Abigail quietly stood "his" watch, gaining the requisite seasoning with the reassuring knowledge a far more experienced officer was immediately available if something unexpected came up.

  She seemed to understand what he was doing, although it was hard to be certain. She was such a self-possessed young woman that she probably wouldn't have allowed any resentment to show, even if she'd felt it. He sometimes wondered how much of that was because of her belief in the Doctrine of the Test which was so central to the Church of Humanity Unchained's theology, but whatever its origin, he'd quietly marked it down as yet another point in Lieutenant Hearns' favor.

  Besides, he'd discovered, she was simply an immensely likable young woman.

  "You think we have what, Lieutenant?" he asked now.

  She was leaning forward, studying her plot intently, and he saw her reach out one hand and tap a complex series of commands into her touchpad without even looking at her fingers. His command chair was too far from her display for him to make out any fine details, but he could see data codes shifting as she refined them.

  "I think we may have a reading on Commodore Karlberg's intruders, Sir," she said, still never looking away from her display. "I'm shunting the data to your repeater plot, Sir," she added, and he looked down as the small display deployed itself from the base of his chair.