by David Weber
The Manticoran's voice was crisper than ever, Westman noticed. The words came quickly and sharply, with the honed steel edges of a bowie knife. And then he saw the same steel in the blue eyes regarding him across the table.
"That vessel, Mr. Westman, was here to deliver weapons to you." Westman felt his heart miss a beat, and a sudden, icy chill went through him. "She was squawking the transponder code of a vessel registered as the Golden Butterfly, but her actual name, inasmuch as she had one, was apparently Marianne. She sailed directly from Split, where she'd delivered a sizable consignment of weapons to Ms. Nordbrandt, as arranged by a gentleman going by the name of 'Firebrand' for something called the Central Liberation Committee. Does any of this ring a bell, Mr. Westman?"
"Parts of it," he acknowledged, returning Terekhov's gaze steadily. "If you want me to say I'm sorry to hear about the loss of your people, I am," he continued, hoping the Manticoran heard the sincerity in his voice. "But while I personally had nothing to do with their deaths, I'd point out that it was the threat of open warfare here on Montana that brought you to this star system. I regret the losses you've suffered. I don't apologize for seeking the weapons and equipment I require from someone who willingly offered them to me."
"Ah, yes. The generous and altruistic Mr. Firebrand," Van Dort said. Westman realized that the two off-worlders were double-teaming him. Unfortunately, the recognition didn't make the tactic any less effective.
"Marianne's surviving crew members—there weren't many—were most eager to tell us anything we wanted to know," the Rembrandter continued. "I think you should know what they told us, as well. But before I share that with you, I'd like Trevor to comment on what I'm about to tell you."
Westman looked at Van Dort's brother-in-law. The Chief Marshal looked as if he would have preferred being somewhere else, but his eyes were as steady as ever as he returned Westman's gaze.
"My people sat in on the interrogations, Steve," he said flatly. "I've viewed recordings of the pertinent portions of them. And Captain Terekhov's people got the Marianne's computers pretty much intact. One of the prisoners, an Annette De Chabrol, took down the security protocols so they could access them. The output I've seen so far confirms what the surviving crew members have told us."
Westman looked at him for a few more moments, then nodded slowly. He understood why Van Dort—or Terekhov—had ensured that Bannister would be able to verify the truthfulness, or at least accuracy, of whatever they were about to tell him.
"Marianne," Van Dort's flat voice reclaimed Westman's attention, "wasn't working for anything called the Central Liberation Committee. To the best of her crew's knowledge, there is no Central Liberation Committee. Marianne was owned and operated by the Jessyk Combine."
Westman felt the sudden shock congealing his features, but there was nothing he could do about it. Jessyk Combine? Impossible!
"The weapons were being delivered to 'resistance groups' in the Cluster on the direct orders of Isabel Bardasano, a cadet member of the Jessyk Board of Directors who specializes in covert operations, 'wet work,' and the transportation of genetic slaves," Van Dort continued implacably. "Marianne was equipped and outfitted as a slaver. She was a slaver, and the survivors of her crew include her commanding officer, who's carried out quite a few 'special operations' for Jessyk over the years. As far as he's aware, this was simply one more."
He stopped. Just like that. He simply stopped talking, sat back in his chair, and looked at Westman across the table.
Westman looked back—stared back—in stunned disbelief. It couldn't be. It couldn't! Why should the Jessyk Combine, one of the worst of the Mesan transstellars, provide weapons to a resistance movement determined to keep all off-worlders off of Montanan soil? It didn't make sense!
And yet. . . .
And yet it did. His jaw clenched as he realized his worst suspicions about Firebrand had fallen far, far short of the truth. Whatever he'd thought he was accomplishing, "Firebrand" and his masters had been using him.
The realization was sickening. But even worse was the question of why they'd done it. He tried desperately to avoid the inevitable conclusion, but his own accursed integrity wouldn't let him. It forced him to look the truth squarely in the eye.
The only reason any Mesan corporation would have helped him keep the Star Kingdom out of Montana was to hold the door open for Frontier Security. If he succeeded in driving Manticore out, it would only be to let Frontier Security—and Mesa—in instead.
"I—" he began finally, only to stop. He cleared his throat. "I didn't know Mesa was involved," he said. "The fact that it was doesn't necessarily mean Manticore wears a white hat—" his eyes flicked to Terekhov's white beret almost against his will, and he snatched them back under control as he continued "—but that's no excuse for dealing with someone like Mesa."
"Mesa may not be the only one you were dealing with, Steve," Bannister said heavily. "According to the bastards aboard that ship, their next port of call wasn't Mesa—it was Monica."
"Monica?" Westman didn't even tried to hide his confusion this time.
"Yep." Bannister nodded. "Monica. Their entire supply mission was staged through 'President' Tyler's little playground. And, as I expect you'll recall, the biggest single customer for Monica's mercenaries is the Office of Frontier Security. So what does that say about the people who were lining up to help you so eagerly?"
"It says," Westman said slowly, "that there's fools and then there's damned fools. And I reckon that this time around, I've been one of the damned fools. And whatever I may think of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, or of Rembrandt, I expect that this time I owe you gentlemen my thanks. If I'd accepted the 'assistance' of scum like that, I'd have slit my own throat when I found out afterward."
"The question, Steve," Bannister said, "is what you're going to do now you have found out. You're a stubborn man, even for a Montanan. Hell, you hold my grudges longer than I do! But it's time you faced the truth, boy. I know you're pissed at Rembrandt for what it's done to Montana. All right, you've got a right to be. I know you're pissed at Bernardus, and I know why. Personally, I reckon we've nursed that particular pet hate long enough Suzanne would be kicking us both in the ass if she were here now. But that's up to you. I'm not going to tell you how to feel about Bernardus as a man. But as Baroness Medusa's representative, I think you'd damned well better listen to what he's saying, because it's the truth, Steve. The truth. The Star Kingdom of Manticore may not be perfect, but it's one damned sight better than anything we're ever going to get out of Frontier Security and somebody like Mesa. Smell the coffee, Steve."
Stephen Westman looked at his oldest friend, and knew—-however fiercely he might fight against admitting it—that Trevor was right. He struggled with himself, and with his stubborn, Montanan pride, for endless seconds. Then he inhaled deeply.
"All right, Trevor," he said wearily. "Expect you're right. It just plain goes against the grain to admit I've been that stupid. I don't say I like it. And don't you go expecting me to ever love Manticore or—especially!—Rembrandt. But I'll allow as how neither one of them can hold a candle to what Frontier Security'd do to us. And I will be damned if I'll let myself or my people be used by something like Mesa. Of course, I'll have to talk it over with the boys before we make any hard and fast decisions, you realize."
"You do that. And I expect you might find it a mite easier to talk them around if you mention what Bernardus here negotiated with President Suttles before we came out for this little visit."
Westman looked a question at him, and the Chief Marshal chuckled.
"Old Bernardus may not be up to Ineka Vaandrager's weight as a pure, dyed-in-the-wool bitch, but he's a pretty persuasive negotiator in his own right. He started by saying Rembrandt'll refuse to press charges for the destruction of its enclave here on Montana. He followed that up by telling the President he already had Baroness Medusa's approval of an amnesty offer for all of you on the part of the Star Kingdom if you'd surrender your w
eapons and give up all this nonsense. And he suggested to the President that if Rembrandt was prepared to forgive you, and Manticore was prepared to forgive you, it might just be he ought to consider exercising his pardoning power to promise you boys amnesty under Montanan law if you lay down your guns."
"Are you serious?" Westman looked at Bannister, then back and forth between him and Van Dort and Terekhov. Bannister only chuckled, and Westman felt his jaw set. "I never asked for any favors, Trevor! I went into this with my eyes open. I'm willing to face the music for what I did!"
"No doubt you are, Mr. Westman," Terekhov said. "I can respect that, even if it does seem just a little stiff-necked even for a Montanan. But however willing you may be to face the music, don't you think you owe it to your men to accept the offer for them? Or, at least, to give them the option?"
Westman glared at him for a few seconds. Then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head wearily.
"Reckon you're right," he sighed. "I reckon you're right."
* * *
"So you think he'll come in, Captain Terekhov?" Warren Suttles asked.
"I think he will, Mr. President. On the other hand, I'm not the best judge of the way Mr. Westman's, or any other Montanan's, mind works. No offense, Sir."
"None taken," Suttles said with a smile, and looked at Bannister. "Your opinion, Chief Marshal?"
"Oh, he'll come in, Mr. President," Bannister said confidently. "He'll kick, and he'll whine, and he'll bellyache. And come a few more T-years down the road, he'll point at every little thing that goes wrong and tell me how much better it would've been if he'd only kept Manticore out of our system. But that's Steve. He'll always be crossgrained and ornery as a pseudorattler with a broken tooth. But if he gives you his word, he'll keep it. And when he starts bellyaching down the road, he'll know he's just making a fool out of himself, and it won't bother him a bit."
Suttles' smile turned into a chuckle, and he shook his head.
"If he'll just stop blowing up the planet, I can live with all of that," the President said. "I can even live with how pissed off the rest of the Cabinet's going to be when I announce the amnesty!"
Chapter Forty-Nine
"Thank you for joining us, Madam President," Andrija Gazi said, smiling as Aleksandra Tonkovic walked regally into the hearing room and settled herself behind the long, polished witness' table.
"The Planetary President is the servant of Parliament, Mr. Chairman," Tonkovic replied, with a smile as gracious as Gazi's own. "It's my pleasure to appear before the committee and to provide any information it may require."
"We appreciate that, Madam President. It makes a refreshing change from some chief executives with whom Parliament's been forced to deal."
Gazi's smile was thinner this time, and Tonkovic was careful not to return it at all. Gazi was a member of her own Democratic Centralist Party, as well as Chairman of the Special Committee on Annexation. She'd taken pains to be certain Andrija wound up in that position, and she was glad now that she had. But she couldn't appear publicly to support his barbed comments about the acting chief executive Parliament had been forced to deal with while she was in Spindle.
Twelve days had passed since she'd received the summons to return home. It felt both much longer and far shorter as she sat in the sunlight spilling through the conference room's tall windows. From where she sat, she could see the Nemanja Building, surrounded by the scaffolding of repair work. She'd been surprised by how much that firsthand sight of the damage Nordbrandt had wreaked had shaken her, but she had no time to think about that right now. She'd spent three days of frenetic activity on Flax, doing her best to ensure the Constitutional Liberal Party's effectiveness in her absence. Then she'd made the eight-and-a-half-day voyage home, studying her notes, thinking about her committee appearances, and—much though she hated to admit it—-worrying. She'd arrived late the previous afternoon, and there simply hadn't been time for her to touch bases with many of her allies. The DCP's general secretary had given her the best briefing he could in the time available, and she'd had dinner with a dozen party leaders, but she was only too well aware of how long she'd been off-world. It was a good thing she was starting with Gazi's committee. Under his management, she'd have a little more time to get her feet back under her before the more adversarial proceedings to come.
"For the most part," Gazi continued, "this will be an informal examination. Unless the situation seems to require it, we'll relax the full rigor of standard parliamentary procedure. We'll invite you, Madam President, to make a brief report on the progress of the Constitutional Convention and its deliberations. Thereafter, each member of the Special Committee will be allocated fifteen minutes in which to inquire more fully into points of particular interest.
"I understand you'll also be appearing before Deputy Krizanic's committee this afternoon." Gazi allowed the merest flicker of distaste to dance across his well-trained features, but his urbane voice went smoothly on. "We thought our own day's business should be concluded by the noon hour, and that we would then break for lunch. In light of your appointment with Deputy Krizanic and her committee, we're planning to adjourn for the day at that time in order to give you some time to refresh yourself and rest between committee appearances. We would, therefore, also request that you make time available to appear before us on Thursday, as well. At that time, the Special Committee's members will each be allotted an additional thirty minutes in order to pursue more fully the points which particularly interest them. Would that be acceptable to you, Madam President?"
"Chairman Gazi, my time is Parliament's. My only concern would be to prevent conflicts between the committees' schedules. I feel confident I can rely on you and Chairwoman Krizanic to avoid that."
"As always, Madam President, you are as gracious as you are diligent in our planet's service," Gazi said, beaming upon her in his best statesman's fashion. She inclined her head with proper modesty, and he cleared his throat and rapped his gavel once, sharply, on the wooden block beside his microphone.
"In that case, the Committee will come to order." The eight men and women behind the raised, horseshoe-shaped table at the head of the hearing room sat a bit straighter, and Gazi nodded to Tonkovic.
"If you'd care to begin, Madam President."
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman."
She took a sip of water and made a minor production out of arranging her old-fashioned notecards before her on the table. Then she looked up with a smile that was both confident and sober.
"Mr. Chairman, Ms. Vice Chairman, Honorable Members of the Committee. As you all know, following the plebiscite vote, it was decided by Parliament that the delegation to the Constitutional Convention on Flax should be headed by our own head of state. Accordingly, as Parliament had directed, I made arrangements to transfer authority to my Vice President and departed for the Spindle System. Once there—"
Gazi and the other members of the committee listened attentively, nodding occasionally, as she launched into her account of her stewardship of Kornati's interests at the convention.
* * *
"Thank you, Madam President," Gazi said the better part of an hour later. "You've been speaking for some time now. Would you like to take a short recess before we proceed?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Chairman." She smiled again, a bit more impishly this time. "I've spent sufficient time in Parliament myself to develop my endurance as a speaker," she added demurely.
A general chuckle ran around the hearing room, and several committee members actually allowed themselves to laugh. Gazi rationed himself to a decorous, appreciative chuckle and shook his head at her with an answering smile.
"Very well then, Madam President. In that case, we'll proceed to the members' allocated time. Deputy Ranjina?"
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," Tamara Ranjina said. "And thank you, Madam President, for that thorough presentation."
Tonkovic inclined her head in a gracious nod. Anything more would have been too effusive, given that Ranjina was the ra
nking Reconciliation Party member of the Special Committee. Under Parliament's rules, that made her Gazi's Vice Chairwoman, although it was extremely unlikely Andrija had maintained anything closer than a politely frosty relationship with her. Personally, Tonkovic considered Ranjina a nonentity. It had always puzzled her why someone who'd once enjoyed a secure niche within the Social Moderate Party should have shifted her allegiance to the Reconciliationists.
"Madam President," Ranjina continued now, her tone pleasant, "I listened with considerable interest to your account of your representation of Kornati at the Constitutional Convention. There are, however, one or two points upon which I still remain just a little bit confused. Perhaps you could illuminate my confusion for me?"
"I'll certainly be happy to attempt to, Madam Vice Chairwoman."
"Thank you. There was one minor element about your other-wise comprehensive report which struck me as a little odd, Madam President. I refer to the fact that Baroness Medusa, Queen Elizabeth's Provisional Governor, repeatedly and specifically informed you that your delaying tactics at the Convention were threatening to derail not simply the Convention but the entire annexation effort and that you didn't see fit to report that information to this committee. Could you possibly explain why that was?"
Ranjina's pleasant voice never changed. The smile never left her face. Yet her question hit the hearing room like a hand grenade. Gazi's face turned an alarming shade of puce. Two of the other committee members appeared as dumbfounded—and enraged—as their chairman, and a single heartbeat of silence hovered in the question's wake. Then the stunned silence vanished into a rising turmoil of whispered agitation among the staffers sitting behind the committee members and those sitting behind Tonkovic herself.
For her own part, Tonkovic felt herself staring in sheer, incredulous shock at the woman on the other side of the horseshoe. She couldn't believe Ranjina had possessed the unadulterated gall to make such an outrageous statement in an open committee hearing. It simply wasn't done. One didn't seek to ambush and humiliate the Planetary President! It was obvious from Gazi's reaction that Ranjina had given him no hint of what she intended to say. Clearly the treacherous bitch had realized the chairman would have muzzled her—or, at the very least, warned Tonkovic—if he'd dreamed she was about to launch such a crude, bare-knuckled assault on the dignity of Tonkovic's office.