by David Weber
Because Charles knew things. Things that no non-Peep should ever know. Including some things that no one outside of Saint-Just’s own top people should know. If his interrogators found out he knew those things, he would learn just how barbaric the People’s Republic of Haven could be. He had to make sure no one discovered the extent of his hidden knowledge.
Or else he needed to find a way to use that knowledge to his own advantage.
It was just after breakfast on the seventh day when his cell was unlocked for the first time and a pair of large dour men hauled him out of his cracker-box kennel and took him down a plain gray corridor to an interrogation room.
The interrogator was already seated on the far side of a heavy-looking table, his dark gray suit a match for the gray of the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Charles Dozewah?” he asked briskly, his eyes on the papers in front of him as the guards cuffed Charles to an equally heavy wooden chair across from him.
“Yes,” Charles said. The interrogator was much older than he’d expected, somewhere in his mid-fifties. Possibly even older than that, depending on which generation prolong he was. That by itself was ominous, since in Charles’s experience younger trainees were usually given first crack at new prisoners in order to hone their skills.
“Or is that Charles Navarre?” the interrogator corrected himself, finally looking up and peering unblinkingly into Charles’s face.
Charles suppressed a grimace. So they’d figured it out. He’d hoped they wouldn’t, but down deep he’d known it was inevitable. “Who?” he asked anyway, just in case.
“Charles Navarre,” the interrogator said. “The man responsible for the destruction of the People’s Naval Ships Vanguard and Forerunner. Not to mention the theft of a sizeable sum of the People’s money.”
“Ah—that Charles Navarre,” Charles said. “Though technically speaking, the Forerunner was an Andermani ship.”
The interrogator’s expression didn’t even crack. “Thank you,” he said as he started to gather his papers together. “That’s all we wanted to know.”
“Actually, it isn’t,” Charles said, forcing his voice to remain calm even as his heartbeat suddenly picked up. Was that all they wanted to know before they turned him over to the torturers? “I’d like you to get a message to Citizen Secretary Saint-Just for me. Tell him that I know about Ellipsis, and that in three days everyone else will, too.”
A slight flicker of something might have touched the interrogator’s eyes as he finished collecting his papers and stood up. He gave Charles one final probing look, then circled the desk and left the room. Charles’s two guards stepped to his sides and started uncuffing him from the chair.
They took their time, with the result that the interrogator was nowhere to be seen by the time Charles and the guards returned to the corridor. Mentally, he crossed his fingers; but instead of heading back toward his cell, they led him off in a different direction entirely.
So the gamble had failed. They were indeed taking him to a torture room. Not for the gathering of information—the interrogator should have asked at least a few questions if information was what they wanted—but for the simple animalistic pleasure of revenge for the little con he’ll pulled all those years ago.
Considering how much that scam had cost the People’s Republic, they were likely to make his death as slow and lingering as possible.
He had been stripped naked and strapped to a table when the interrogator arrived and held a brief and inaudible conversation with the black-gloved man who seemed to be in charge of Haven’s version of the Inquisition. A minute later, a clearly unhappy torturer bit out an order, and Charles was unstrapped and hauled off the table. The interrogator led him down the hall to the guardroom and pointed him to one of the showers.
The cubicle contained badly missed soap and an even more badly missed razor. Charles made full use of both, and when he emerged a few minutes later, he felt like a new man. The interrogator was waiting with a set of Peep clothing; silently, he handed it to his prisoner. Charles dressed, and then waited as the interrogator added a set of wrist and ankle chains to the ensemble.
He was double-checking the locks on the wrists when his eyes suddenly met Charles’s. “If you’re lying,” he said, his voice dark and deadly, “not even God will have mercy on you.”
This time it was Charles’s turn not to speak. The interrogator held his gaze another few seconds, then jerked his head toward the door.
Five minutes later, they were in a sealed van, driving down the streets of the capital.
* * *
Citizen Secretary Oscar Saint-Just was looking a little pale today, Charles thought as a set of palace guards marched him across the expanse of the State Security dictator’s office. Or maybe this was his normal skin tone, and the publicity photos and HDs of him were routinely touched up. Certainly a man who could create an entire fraudulent HD of a Manty naval officer being hanged wouldn’t balk at having a little cosmetic work done on his own image.
Just as the interrogator had on their first meeting, Saint-Just pretended he didn’t see Charles as the prisoner was marched to his massive desk and secured to a chair in front of it. Unlike the chair in the prison, this chair was at least comfortably padded.
The guards strode out, and Saint-Just continued to work in silence. Charles sat motionlessly, cultivating his patience, knowing the other would make the first move when he deemed the time was right.
Two minutes later, it finally was.
“So,” Saint-Just said, setting his papers aside and eyeing his visitor. The interrogator had been quite good with the cold, deadly stare, but Saint-Just had the man’s efforts beat hands down. “You’re here to plead for your life.”
Clear and direct, with no word or mind games. Rather as Charles had expected. “Actually, Citizen Secretary, I’m here to offer a deal that will benefit us both.”
“Really,” Saint-Just said. “And why should I believe anything you say? Because of this?” He reached into a drawer and pulled out the Redactor Charles had been dangling so enticingly in front of Armond and Miklos.
“Neat little gadget, isn’t it?” Charles asked, slipping automatically into sales-pitch mode. “It feeds whatever image you want into a ship’s sensor line—”
“It’s useless,” Saint-Just cut him off, tossing the Redactor contemptuously toward an unoccupied section of his desk. “A typical warship has hundreds or thousands of sensor lines. Your shipyard agent would have to have a dozen accomplices working overtime to deal with all of them.”
“It does exactly what I claimed,” Charles pointed out. “I never vouched for its practicality.”
“As you also never vouched for the practicality of the Crippler?” Saint-Just countered.
Charles winced. The Crippler had been at the heart of his last scheme against the People’s Republic, a beautiful little gadget that could collapse a ship’s wedge from a million kilometers away. And like the Redactor, it had worked exactly as advertised . . . up to its inherent limits. “The Crippler worked perfectly against the proper targets,” he reminded Saint-Just evenly. “And the Redactor would work equally well against, say, a freighter with its considerably fewer number of sensor systems.”
“That might be useful if the People’s Republic was engaged in large-scale piracy,” Saint-Just said acidly. “We’re not. We’re in the middle of a war. How do you know about Ellipsis?”
The old, traditional out-of-the-blue change of subject. Even men as subtle as Saint-Just occasionally fell back on the obvious ones. “I have information sources everywhere,” Charles said. “Most of them nameless, unfortunately, so I can’t tell you where this particular tidbit came from.”
Saint-Just’s lip twitched. “The Navy, no doubt.”
“Could be,” Charles agreed. “I imagine they weren’t pleased when you took everything away from them.”
“No, they weren’t.” Saint-Just cocked his head. “And how exactly is it that you think the universe will know about it in three days?”
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“Messages have already been sent out,” Charles said, as coolly and calmly as if it were actually true. “If I should disappear for more than ten days—and trust me, there are people, even on Haven, who are always kept informed about my movements and whereabouts—those messages will lead their recipients to everything I know about the ship.”
Saint-Just’s expression twitched, just noticeably, on the word ship. “And you don’t think we can beat those names out of you before that time limit is up?”
Charles shrugged, forcing down a shiver. “It’s possible,” he conceded. “But if you try and fail, you’ll be throwing away the best resource to come across your path for many a day.”
“The Ellipsis?”
Charles gestured toward his chest. “Me.”
For a long moment Saint-Just sat motionless, eyeing Charles like a tiger sizing up a prospective bit of lunch. Then, his gaze softened, just a bit, and he settled back into his chair. “Tell me everything.”
Charles took a careful breath. Right here, right now, was his only chance to prove to Saint-Just that he was worth more alive than stretched out on a torture rack.
And the first part of that proof, as Saint-Just had demanded, was indeed to tell him everything. “The Ellipsis is a Manty heavy cruiser, Star Knight-class, which you got hold of early in the war,” he said. “My source was a little vague on where it came from, but I’ve always assumed it was attacked by pirates while escorting some VIP.”
“Actually, it was escorting a freighter taking missile technology to Alizon,” Saint-Just said. “And its attackers weren’t exactly pirates.”
“Ah,” Charles murmured. There were long-standing rumors that the Peeps had hired a number of pirate gangs as privateers. “At any rate, it squared off to fight, and the last thing the freighter saw as it made its getaway was the cruiser being pounded to rubble. It was assumed destroyed, the rest of the Manties went on with their lives, and the People’s Navy towed what was left of the cruiser back to a hidden dock somewhere and started taking the thing apart.”
“Yes,” Saint-Just said, his eyes hardening with the memory. “For all the good it did them.”
“Indeed,” Charles said, nodding. “The Manty captain may not have gotten around to giving the destruct order before the command deck was hit, but he would certainly have put out the slag order to destroy anything of real tech value aboard.”
Saint-Just’s lip quirked in another smile. “Your source is very well informed.”
Charles shrugged microscopically. “Some of it’s just simple logic,” he said. “The fact that the PRN isn’t using any of the Manty tech, even the less advanced secret stuff from that early in the war, means nothing was found.”
“Oh, a great deal was found,” Saint-Just corrected, his face darkening. “There were personal service manuals in various lockers and a few hard copies of routine diagnostics that were still intact. There were also quite a few slagged blocks that used to be secret Manty technology. The Navy’s R and D people promised they would be able to get something out of them.”
“Which will happen any day now, of course,” Charles said, nodding. “Yes, I know the routine. The military never quite gives up, yet never quite delivers on their promises. Meanwhile, as they’ve poked around uselessly, you’ve formulated a far better plan for the ship, one that would bring dramatic results in weeks rather than years.”
Saint-Just’s eyes came back from his contemplation of the People’s Navy and their stubborn uselessness. “You’re indeed well informed, Mr. Navarre,” he said, very quietly. “Would you care to tell me what exactly these plans consist of?”
“On that, I can only speculate,” Charles said, again suppressing a shiver. If Saint-Just ever even suspected there was a leak in his own upper echelon, he would have Charles taken apart, molecule by molecule if necessary, until he had a name. “Since I assume you’ve got the Navy restoring the ship for you—grudgingly, no doubt, since they’d rather use the refitting facilities for their own damaged ships—I further assume it’s for some kind of covert op that you’re hoping will embarrass the Manties. Raiding League freighters, possibly, in the hope of turning more Solly sympathy—and weapons—toward the People’s Republic.”
“Really,” Saint-Just said, again favoring Charles with that tiger smile. “You think I would fight this hard—that I would throw every bit of my own prestige against Naval small-mindedness—just so I could blame Manticore for some shipping harassment? You insult me, Mr. Navarre.”
“My apologies, Citizen Secretary,” Charles said hastily. “As I said, I’m just thinking aloud. The other possibility is that you plan some kind of infiltration into enemy space, either into the Manticore system itself or that of one of their allies.” Had there been a twitch of Saint-Just’s lip when the Manticore system was mentioned? “The former would certainly be the more audacious,” he continued.
“Only with great risk comes great reward,” Saint-Just said. “Now tell me which specific target I have in mind.”
Charles braced himself. His life literally hung on his next words. “To be honest,” he said, “I don’t believe there are any genuinely viable targets.”
Saint-Just’s eyes remained steady on him. “Explain.”
“Let’s look at the possibilities,” Charles said, forcing himself not to rush. He had to get the whole analysis out before Saint-Just summarily ordered his head taken off. But at the same time, he had to remain calm and professional about it. “The two obvious choices are the Manties’ big space stations: Hephaestus at Manticore, and Vulcan at Sphinx. Taking out either of those would effectively cripple the Manties’ spaceborne industry, which would have huge ramifications for both their civilian and military arenas.”
“Yet you just said they weren’t worthwhile targets.”
“Oh, they’re worthwhile enough,” Charles said. “They’re just not viable. No matter what kind of false transponder and ID codes you’re able to put aboard the Ellipsis, the chance that the Manties will let the ship get within range are slim to none. Even if you can get it close enough to launch missiles, the fixed defenses around either station would almost certainly take them out before they could do any damage.”
“Sphinx’s orbital radius is slightly over twenty-one light-minutes from the primary, with a system hyper limit of only twenty-two light-minutes,” Saint-Just said, watching Charles closely. “That means the Ellipsis could come out less than a light-minute from Sphinx and Vulcan. That would put it well within missile range.”
“I believe that the actual number is even better, only twenty-seven light-seconds,” Charles said. “But what most people don’t know—though I’m sure you do—is that any ship that comes out of hyper less than three light-minutes from Sphinx is automatically attacked. If the Ellipsis tried coming in that close to the station, it wouldn’t even get a chance to use whatever ID you’d set it up with.”
“So my admirals have informed me,” Saint-Just said. His face was still unreadable, but Charles thought he could detect a slight softening of the Peep’s expression. Maybe he’d already heard these numbers and arguments from his own people, which would only help Charles’s own credibility. “But I never expected it to be anything but a suicide mission.”
“I understand,” Charles said. “But even a suicide mission has to have some reasonable chance of success. Coming out three light-minutes from Vulcan would put Ellipsis just barely into missile range, but there isn’t a reasonable chance that it could hit the station from that distance before the Manties’ defenses came into play.”
“Then we simply ram the station,” Saint-Just said. “Accelerate as much as possible, for as long as possible, and as the Manties start shooting back, rotate to present its wedge to the defenders.”
“At which point it would become a ballistic projectile, not accelerating and with a completely predictable trajectory,” Charles said. “It would be child’s play for the Manties to program a missile to come in sideways and either down Ellipsis’s
throat or up its kilt.”
“And worse . . . ?”
Charles frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve done an excellent job of mimicking my military advisors,” Saint-Just said calmly. “Now tell me: what is the even more disastrous risk I would be taking by sending the Ellipsis to ram Vulcan?”
Charles felt a surge of panic, ruthlessly forced it down. This was obviously some sort of test, with Saint-Just trying to see just how bright or how informed he was.
Only Charles didn’t have a clue as to where the Citizen Secretary was nudging him. What could be worse than a failed mission and wasted lives?
“You disappoint me,” Saint-Just said into the lengthening silence. “And you a Solly, yet.”
And finally, Charles got it. “You’re talking about the Eridani Edict,” he said, wincing with the thought. “If the Ellipsis should miss the station and hit Sphinx . . .”
“The entire Solarian League Navy would arrive on Haven’s doorstep,” Saint-Just said, his tone icy. “Never mind the fact that the offender would demonstrably have been a rogue Manty ship, and that the subsequent destruction would have been merely a terrible accident.”
Charles stared at the impassive face across the desk. Was that, in fact, Saint-Just’s actual plan? To pretend the Ellipsis was attacking Vulcan, hoping it would “accidentally” destroy Sphinx instead? “It wouldn’t matter,” he said between suddenly frozen lips. “The League wouldn’t believe either. They’d come to Haven, all right, and they’d dismantle your military and government right down to bedrock.”
“I suppose.” Saint-Just shrugged. “Pity.”
“Indeed,” Charles said, struck by the grotesque irony of the word. Pity was an emotion Saint-Just himself probably hadn’t felt in decades. “But that is unfortunately the reality we face.”
Saint-Just smiled faintly. “So it’s we, now, is it?”
Charles winced. “Forgive the impertinence, Citizen Secretary,” he said, ducking his head humbly. “Part of a salesman’s job is to identify with his client, all the better to find a mutually satisfactory solution to the client’s needs.”