by David Weber
“The short version is that they feel provoked,” Yardley said in a flat voice, meeting Lombroso’s eyes levelly. She’d recommended relying solely on infantry for crowd control during the protests, but the president, irked by the challenge coming at him from some of the senior ranks of his own political party, had wanted a more visible and more intimidating deterrent. Well, he’d gotten that, hadn’t he?
He looked back at her for several seconds, then he grimaced angrily and strode across his office to look out the window at downtown Landing.
All right, he admitted to himself. So maybe the Guard overreacted when it started taking fire. Hell, no ‘maybe’ about it, Svein, and you damned well know it! They got out of hand, but it’s hard to blame them for wanting to make an example out of the bastards who’d opened fire on them. Not the kind of behavior you want to encourage, is it?
Maybe not, yet the better part of three thousand casualties, two thirds of them fatal, hadn’t gone down well with the régime’s opponents. And the Trifecta Tower attack had obviously enheartened the people already furious over the “May Day Massacre.” It might be unlikely that there were any more Brewsters out there, prepared to make what amounted to suicide runs against high visibility targets, but that wasn’t keeping a hell of a lot of other people from striking back in less spectacular fashion wherever and whenever they could, and their efforts were gaining momentum.
He glowered down from the window at the boulevard where the Scorpions had gone on their May rampage. Physical damage from that little episode was still easy enough to see, and the rebuilding efforts were one of the favored targets for the saboteurs who seemed to increase in numbers every day. He’d been hearing about that from his transstellar sponsors, too. They wanted their buildings back up and running, and they weren’t especially shy about pointing out how much the May Riots had cost them in damages and lost profits.
He thought about leaning closer to the window, looking up Trifecta Boulevard towards the emergency vehicles and construction equipment clustered around the ruins of the parking garage where an entire regiment of his elite troopers had been entombed. He didn’t think about it very hard, though.
“So you saying this is mostly freelance?” he asked, never turning away from the window. “That it isn’t the MLF, just some of its members who’re too pissed off for the leadership to control?”
“That’s my analysts’ read,” Yardley agreed, and Mátyás nodded in agreement.
“So what do we do about it?” Lombroso wheeled to face them once more, clasping his hands behind him. “Do we back the pressure off in hopes things will quiet down again, at least some, until Verrochio’s intervention battalions get here? Or do we try to bring the hammer down harder?”
“I think that depends in part on whether or not the battalions are really on their way,” Yardley replied. “Is it your impression they are, Mister President?”
“I think they almost certainly are,” he said after a brief hesitation. “Xydis wouldn’t have gone as far out on a limb promising she’d ask for them if she didn’t expect to get them. And let’s face it, we’ve always known that if she’d really asked for them before, they’d have been here a long time ago. Besides, she attached her endorsement to my messages to Commissioner Verrochio. I don’t think she would’ve done that if her own messages weren’t urging Verrochio to do the same thing. For that matter, even if she wasn’t then, she damned well is now that we’ve lost Braddock’s regiment! As for how long it’s going to take them to get here”—he shrugged—“your guess is as good as mine.”
“If that’s the case, then I think we should hammer them now—hard,” Yardley said. “I think failing to hit them whenever and however we can, especially after Brewster’s escapade, is only going to further embolden them, and I don’t think ‘restraint’ is going to cool any tempers on the other side. The best we might accomplish would be to get them to back off enough to let the MLF leadership reassert control, and, frankly, if there really are Solly Gendarmerie intervention battalions on the way, backing off is the last thing we want them to do.”
“Excuse me?” Lombroso’s expression was perplexed, and she shrugged.
“Mister President, the MLF is the best organized batch of malcontents we’ve ever faced. They’re tightly compartmentalized and—usually—highly disciplined. That’s one reason we’ve had so much trouble penetrating them. But if the present provocations are spontaneous, not ordered from above, then they’re probably going to be less meticulously planned and executed than the MLF operations we’ve seen in the past. That increases our chances of catching them at it and maybe scoring a few successes of our own. Taking some live prisoners we can…talk to at our leisure, let’s say. Pushing them into hasty, ill-conceived, wildcat attacks—and, no, I’m not putting Brewster into that category, but it’s the best way to describe this other, smaller crap—can only increase their vulnerability. It’s bound to generate confusion, and Friedemann’s people are a lot more likely to be able to get someone inside or crack one of their communications lines open if they’re trying to control their people on the fly. For that matter, even if we don’t manage to break a single cell, any operations they mount are going to pull them further out into the open, at the very least. If we can suck them off balance, get them to expose themselves where we can get at them—especially if they don’t know the intervention battalions are on their way—they’ll be a much softer target for whoever Brigadier Yucel sends to kick their asses for us.”
Lombroso frowned thoughtfully. He’d never considered the problem in those terms, yet now that he thought about it, Yardley’s recommendations actually made sense. In fact, they were more imaginative than he was accustomed to hearing out of her.
“If that’s the case, should we expand our own offensive operations?” he asked after a moment. “Turn the heat up even further?”
“I don’t see where it could hurt,” Yardley said. “And, to be honest, there are some agitators and so-called ‘newsies’ out there who’ve been giving the MLF one hell of a lot of aid and comfort, especially since the May Riots. I’d like to have the opportunity to entertain some of them, too. And whether we go after them now or later, we’re still going to have to break a few necks in the end. Might as well make a start on it now.”
Lombroso nodded, then turned back to the window once again, lips pursed. He thought about it for perhaps a minute, then shrugged.
“All right,” he said grimly, “go do it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Excuse me?”
Stephen Westman, of the Montana Westmans, tipped back his spotless white Stetson the better to raise both eyebrows at the rather unassuming looking man who’d just been shown into his office.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any kind of documentation to support this tale of yours?” he went on.
“No, Mr. Westman,” his visitor admitted. “Not that you’d recognize, anyway.”
“Ah, I see. You have some kind of code word or secret handshake Admiral Gold Peak will recognize, but for some reason you need me to introduce you to her.” He shook his head, blue eyes hard. “Mister, I realize it wasn’t so very long ago I got played like a fiddle, but you know, even a Montanan can learn. Hell, even a Westman can learn if you use a big ’nough cluestick!”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” the visitor said with a puzzled expression. “I was just given your name as a person to contact here on Montana who might have the connections—and be willing—to put me in touch with the senior Manticoran naval officer in the system. All I need is the opportunity to speak to whoever that is. If that’s this ‘Admiral Gold Peak,’ then that’s who I need to talk to.”
Westman frowned. He’d never seen this stranger before, and he couldn’t place the man’s accent. The fellow had just turned up in the office he maintained here in the Montana capital of Brewster, shown credentials identifying him as a purchasing agent for the Trifecta Corporation, and announced his interest in acquiring Montanan
beef for export to the Mobius System. Given that Mobius was little more than a hundred and ninety light-years from Montana—about two T-months for a normal bulk hauler, but barely three T-weeks for the faster ships that served the passenger and perishable goods trades—the idea actually made quite a lot of sense. According to the purchasing agent, the cost of beef in Mobius, where livestock producers were few and far between and even genetically engineered cattle had adapted only poorly to the local environment, was about ninety Manticoran dollars a kilo, as opposed to considerably less than three dollars a kilo here on Montana. Mobian beef wasn’t especially good, either, whereas Montana’s beef had a galaxy-wide five-star quality rating (and quite a few gourmands would have given it six stars, if they’d been allowed to), and interstellar freight rates were ridiculously cheap. He could easily afford to pay Westman five or six times the spaceport delivery price on Montana and still show a five or six hundred-percent profit.
From what little Westman knew about Mobius, it seemed unlikely the typical Mobian was going to be able to afford prices like that. There were probably enough transstellar employees and their flunkies to make it a viable long-term proposition, though. And that wasn’t really his problem, either way, so he’d flown into Brewster to meet with the man. At which point the “purchasing agent” had sprung his surprise.
Question is, is he really as pig ignorant about my little dustup here on Montana as he’s pretending? Seems unlikely, if I’m s’posed to be willing to act as his introduction, but let’s be fair, Stevie. Montana’s not exactly the center of the known universe as far as people living somewhere else are concerned. Things might’a got just a little garbled in transmission.
The real problem, he admitted to himself, was that he had been played like a fiddle by “Firebrand,” the Mesan agent provocateur who’d offered to provide his own resistance effort with weapons for his campaign to prevent Montana from becoming part of the Star Empire of Manticore. He’d done some stupid things in his life, but right off hand, he couldn’t think of any which had been stupider than that one. For one thing, he’d been wrong about the Manties. For that matter, he’d even been wrong about Bernardus Van Dort, and that had been a really unpleasant pill to swallow. But what he found even harder to forgive himself for was accepting Firebrand at face value. When he’d discovered he’d actually been working with something as foul as Manpower, Incorporated…
Come on, Steve, he told himself. Even if this fella knows all about your bout of temporary insanity, nobody’d be stupid enough to try and suck you in the same way twice. Well, maybe they would if they really knew you, but assuming they’d figure you actually have a working brain, they wouldn’t try to set you up the same way all over again. But still, this whole thing sounds loonier than a tenderfoot trying to cross the Missouri Gorge on foot.
“’Scuse me for asking this, Mr. Ankenbrandt, but you said somebody gave you my name because I might ‘be willing’ to sort of introduce you around. Exactly why did whoever it was seem to think I might be willing to do any such thing? And what made ’em choose me over all the other lunatics on this planet?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to either of those questions,” the purchasing agent replied. “Except for the obvious, that is.”
“Obvious?” Westman chuckled sourly. “Pardon me for saying this, but nothing about this strikes me as ‘obvious.’”
“Sorry.” Ankenbrandt smiled briefly. “What I meant was that Trifecta really is interested in exploring the market in Mobius for Montana beef. That means nobody’s going to ask any questions about my happening to meet with somebody who exports beef from Montana. Aside from that, I really don’t know why they put your name on my list of contacts.”
“And who might this ‘they’ be?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that to anyone except the senior Manticoran officer in-system.” Ankenbrandt’s tone sounded genuinely apologetic.
“I see.” Westman studied the Solarian narrowly. “And if I should happen to turn all suspicious and hand your out-world ass—if you’ll pardon my language—over to the Marshal Service with the recommendation that they just purely investigate the hell out of you?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Ankenbrandt said. “It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, and they wouldn’t find anything anyway. On the other hand, it could get me, and a lot of other people, into a lot of trouble if the wrong people back in Mobius were to hear about it. And to be honest, I don’t think the Manties would be very happy with you if that happened.”
Damned if he doesn’t sound like the real deal, Westman reflected. And from his expression, I think he’s telling the truth about how much trouble he could get into back home. He’s mighty insistent on how bad the Manties’re going to want to talk to him, too. Even if they don’t know he’s coming!
“Well,” he said out loud after a moment, “I’m afraid if you want me to introduce you to Admiral Gold Peak, you’re out of luck. I’ve met the lady, but she and I don’t frequent the same circles.” Ankenbrandt’s expression fell, but Westman continued unhurriedly. “Just happens, though, that I do know at least one Manty officer who’d be able to get you in to see her. Assuming, of course, you can convince him that’d be a good idea.” The Montanan smiled slowly. “Mind you, he doesn’t convince real easy, and he’s just a mite on the stubborn side himself. ’Fraid that’s about the best I can do for you, though. Interested?”
Ankenbrandt was obviously torn. He turned and looked out the office windows for a good fifteen seconds, clearly thinking hard, then turned back to Westman.
“If that’s the best you can do—and if you’re willing to go that far for me—I’ll take your offer and be grateful,” he said.
“Fine.”
Westman tapped his personal com awake, entered a combination from memory, and turned to look out the windows himself, waiting. It took a little longer than usual for the connection to go through, then he smiled out at the passing air cars of downtown Brewster.
“Howdy, Helen,” he said, and his voice had grown much warmer. “Tell me, would it happen the Commodore—and you, of course—would be able to join me at The Rare Sirloin for dinner in a couple of hours, say?” He listened for a moment, still looking out the window, and snorted. “No, I haven’t gone back to my wicked ways, young lady! But”—his expression sobered—“it ’pears somebody else may have something along those lines he wants to talk about.” He listened again. “I don’t mind holding,” he said then.
He stood at the windows, whistling softly, for several seconds. Then—
“Yes?” He listened again, then nodded in satisfaction. “Fine! Tell the Commodore I appreciate it, and I’ll see both of you then. Clear.”
He deactivated the com again and turned to the Solarian.
“Well, there you go, Mr. Ankenbrandt. You’ve got your meeting. Just bear in mind that neither the Commodore nor I are real fond of people who try to play us for fools.”
* * *
“Yes, Aivars? What can I do for you?” Michelle Henke asked.
“This is going to sound a little strange, Ma’am,” Sir Aivars Terekhov said from her com display.
“There’s a lot of that going around lately,” she replied dryly.
“I meant, it’s going to sound even stranger than most of what’s been happening,” he explained with a slight smile, and she raised her eyebrows.
“You fill me with dread. Go ahead.”
“Well, Ensign Zilwicki and I had dinner down on Montana with an old…acquaintance of ours an hour or so ago. And that acquaintance had brought along a guest with an odd request. It seems—”
* * *
The admittance signal chimed, and Michelle Henke glanced over her shoulder at Master Sergeant Massimiliano Cognasso. Master Sergeant Cognasso—Miliano to his friends—was scarcely accustomed to hobnobbing with flag officers who also happened to be third in line for the imperial throne. He was, however, a twenty-T-year veteran of the Royal M
anticoran Marines, and while he might not have been precisely comfortable, he didn’t seem all that distressed, either.
Nor did the real reason for his presence seem especially flustered. The treecat on Cognasso’s shoulder had his head up and his ears pricked as he turned to look at the inner side of the cabin hatch, but although the very tip of his fluffy tail was kinked up in a question mark, it was also still and alert. There were exactly two treecats in Tenth Fleet, as Michelle had made it Gervais Archer’s business to discover. That was actually an amazingly high number, given how few treecats adopted humans, but only Cognasso and Alfredo had been close enough for Gervais to get them aboard HMS Artemis in time for this meeting.
“Are you two ready, Master Sergeant?” Michelle asked, and Cognasso nodded.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied.
“Good.” Michelle smiled, then looked at the treecat. “And remember, Alfredo. We don’t want him to know if you catch him in a lie.”
The ’cat raised his right hand, signing the letter “Y” and “nodding” it up and down, and Michelle nodded back. Then she pressed the admittance stud on her desk and sat back as Chris Billingsley led Sir Aivars Terekhov and a civilian stranger into her day cabin.
“Commodore Terekhov and…guest, Milady,” Billingsley announced formally, and Michelle rose behind the desk and extended her hand.
“Sir Aivars,” she said, speaking a bit more formally than usual herself.
“Admiral Gold Peak,” he replied, shaking her hand firmly. “Thank you for agreeing to see us so promptly, especially under such unusual circumstances.”