by David Weber
Cachat gave her a quick, reassuring smile. "No, no, of course not. I'll have to get it from our station on Erewhon. But we'll need to pass through Erewhon en route to Trevor's Star, anyway."
On their way out of the palace to start making their preparations, Anton murmured: "Nice save, Victor."
Cachat might have looked a bit embarrassed. If so, though, it was only an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny bit of embarrassment.
"Look, I'm not crazy. Of course I don't carry the thing into bed. In fact, I don't keep it anywhere in the bedroom. But . . . what would be the point of having a suicide device in another star system? Naturally, I carry the thing with me at all times. I've done so for years."
Zilwicki didn't shake his head, but he was sorely tempted. There were times when Victor seemed like an alien from a far away galaxy with an emotional structure not even remotely akin to that of human beings. It was obvious Cachat thought it was perfectly reasonable—normal practice for any competent secret agent—to carry around a suicide device at all times. He'd no more think of venturing out without one than another man would go without putting on shoes.
In point of fact, no intelligence agency other than that of Haven followed such a practice—and, although he wasn't positive, Anton was pretty sure not even the Havenites did so routinely. Not even when Saint-Just had been running the show. Suicide devices would only be provided to agents on rare occasions, for missions that were especially sensitive. They wouldn't be passed around like so many throat lozenges!
Once again, if Anton needed the reminder, Victor Cachat was demonstrating that he was Victor Cachat.
"One of a kind," he muttered.
"What was that?"
"Never mind, Victor."
* * *
Hugh ran his fingers through his hair. That was a gesture he normally only did when he was exasperated. Which . . .
He was and he wasn't. It was all rather confusing—and Hugh Arai hated being confused.
"I still don't see why you're so insistent—"
"Cut it out, Hugh!" snapped Jeremy X. "You know perfectly well why I'm twisting your arm as hard as I can. First, because you're the best."
"Oh, that's nonsense! There are plenty of security people in the galaxy better than I am."
Jeremy's beady gaze really had to be seen to be believed.
"Well . . . all right, fine. There aren't all that many and while I think it's ridiculous to claim I'm 'the best,' it's probably true. . . ."
His voice trailed off. Web Du Havel finished the sentence: "That nobody is any better than you."
Hugh gave the prime minister of Torch a rather unfriendly look. "Meaning no offense, Web, but when did you become an expert on security?"
Du Havel just grinned. "I'm not and never claimed to be. But I don't have to, since"—here he indicated Jeremy with a thumb—"I've got as my war secretary a man who proved, year after year after year, that he could thwart just about any security system in existence. So I figure I can take his word for it, when it comes to such matters."
That was . . . hard to argue with.
Jeremy waited just long enough to make sure Hugh had conceded the point. Concession by stubborn silence, perhaps—but concession it was, and they both knew it.
"The second reason's just as important," he continued. "Normally, we'd lean on the Ballroom for anything like this. But with what we know now, from the Ronald Allen incident, we can't do that. I doubt if Manpower has been able to get very many agents to penetrate the Ballroom or Torch government offices—but it seems almost certain that however many such agents there are, all of them will have assassinating the Queen as one of their top priorities."
He paused, waiting for Hugh—forcing Hugh, rather—to agree or disagree.
Since the answer was obvious, Hugh nodded. "No argument there. And your conclusion is . . . ?"
"Obvious, it seems to me. We need to pull together a security team that's completely outside the Ballroom and doesn't depend on using genetic ex-slaves."
Hugh saw a possible beam of light.
"Well, in that case, I need to remind you I'm a genetic ex-slave, so that would seem—"
"Cut it out!" That was as close to a roar as Hugh had ever seen coming from Jeremy. The man's normal and preferred style was whimsical, not ferocious.
Jeremy glared at him. "You don't count, and the reason's obvious—and you know it. I can vouch for you since the age of five, and if I can't be trusted we're all screwed anyway since I'm the be-damned Secretary of War! Let's not go crazy, here. But even with you in charge, I still want the rest of the team to be from Beowulf."
Even while he'd been raising his objections, Hugh's mind had been chewing on the problem. On a second track, so to speak. He hadn't needed Jeremy to explain to him the advantages of using a security team that had no pre-existing ties to Torch or the Ballroom. That had been obvious, from the outset. And the solution to that problem was just as obvious—if it could be done at all.
"The best way to handle it would simply be to have the BSC assign me and my team to Torch."
Jeremy nodded. "Finally! The lad's thinking clearly."
Web Du Havel looked from one to the other. "I didn't have the impression BSC teams specialized in security."
Hugh and Jeremy smiled simultaneously. "Well, they don't. As such," said Jeremy. "It's rather like my own expertise on the subject. What you might call, developed from the inside out. Or the outside, in."
Web rolled his eyes. "In other words, you don't have a clue about security procedures except how to get around them."
"Pretty much," said Hugh. "Leaving me aside—I do have a lot of security training and experience—the skills of my team are what you might call those of the OpForce. But that's plenty good enough, Web. And since they're completely out of the loop in terms of Torch or the Ballroom—and I can vouch for each and every one of them—we don't have to worry that we've been penetrated."
"That still leaves the problem that whatever method is being used in these latest assassinations and assassination attempts might be able to circumvent everything."
Hugh shook his head. "I don't believe in magic, Jeremy, and neither do you. I think Manpower's behind all this, myself, although I'd admit that may just be my pre-existing bias. Still, whatever the method is, it smacks of some sort of biological technique. Except for Beowulf—and not even Beowulf, in some areas—Manpower has the greatest biological expertise in the galaxy. But regardless of who's behind it, that means it can be thwarted, once we figure out how they're doing it. Whoever 'they are.' And in the meantime . . ."
His tone got very grim. "I can think of at least one method that'll provide Berry with security even while we're in the dark. She won't like it, though."
Web looked a bit alarmed. "If it involves cloistering her, Hugh, you may as well forget it. Even as comparatively amenable as she is right now, because of the death of Lara and the others, there's no way Berry will agree to living like a recluse."
"That's not what I was thinking of—although whether she likes it or not, she's going to have to be sequestered a large part of the time. That doesn't mean she won't be able to move around at all, just . . . Call it security by extreme ruthlessness. But I know Berry well enough already to know she'll have a hard time accepting the procedures I'd set up."
Somewhere in the course of the last minute or so, Hugh realized he'd made up his mind. He found it simultaneously intriguing and disturbing that the key factor had been nothing more sophisticated than an intense desire to keep a certain Berry Zilwicki alive.
Perhaps because the thought was unsettling, he went back to glaring at Jeremy. "Of course, this is almost certainly a moot point, since I can't think of any reason the BSC would agree to any of this. Detaching an entire combat team to serve a foreign nation, for an unspecified but probably long stretch of time? You're dreaming, Jeremy."
Now it was Jeremy and Du Havel who smiled simultaneously. "Why don't you let us worry about that," said Web. "Perhaps we can manage someth
ing."
"Sure," said Princess Ruth. "Do you want me to make the recording for my parents as well as my aunt? I'd recommend including my mom and dad. Aunt Elizabeth would get peeved if anyone said it right out loud, but the truth is that my father can usually wheedle anything out of her. And since any security measures that protect Berry are likely to spill over onto me, he'll probably wheedle pretty good."
Web and Jeremy looked at each other. "Whatever you think, Ruth. You're the expert here."
"Okay, then." Ruth pursed her lips. "Now . . . I've got to figure out what would work best. Teary-eyed or sternly-insistent-just-short-of-filial-disrespect. Is 'filial' the right word, when you're a daughter?"
"Why are you so certain Manticore can bring enough influence to bear on Beowulf?" Jeremy asked later.
"There are at least four reasons I can think of," replied Web. "The simplest of which is that even though you've spent a lot of time around Beowulfers, I don't think you really grasp the depth and relentlessness of the enmity Beowulf's elite has for Manpower. For them, in some ways even more than for ex-slaves like ourselves, this war is profoundly personal. A grudge match, you might say."
"That all happened centuries ago, Web. Over half a millennium. Who can hold a personal grudge that long? I don't think I could even do it, and I'm a well-known fanatic."
Web chuckled. "There are at least eight projects on Beowulf that I know of which are studying evolutionary effects, every one of which was started within five years of the first settlement of the planet—almost one thousand, eight hundred years ago. At a certain level of dedication, biologists aren't really sane."
He shook his head. "But leave that aside. One of the other reasons is that Manticore can bring a lot of pressure to bear on Beowulf. Call it influence, rather. And vice versa, of course. The relations between those two star nations are a lot closer than most people realize."
Jeremy still looked a bit dubious. But he didn't pursue the matter any further. This, after all, was Web Du Havel's area of expertise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The warship which emerged from the Trevor's Star terminus of the Manticore Wormhole Junction did not show a Manticoran transponder code. Nor did it show a Grayson or an Andermani code. Nonetheless, it was allowed transit, for the code it did display was that of the Kingdom of Torch.
To call the vessel a "warship," was, perhaps, to be overly generous. It was, in fact, a frigate—a tiny class which no major naval power had built in over fifty T-years. But this was a very modern ship, less than three T-years old, and it was Manticoran built, by the Hauptman Cartel, for the Anti-Slavery League.
Which, as everyone understood perfectly well, actually meant it had been built for the Audubon Ballroom, before its lapse into respectability. And this particular frigate—TNSPottawatomie Creek—was rather famous, one might almost have said notorious, as the personal transport of one Anton Zilwicki, late of Her Manticoran Majesty's Navy.
Everyone in the Star Kingdom knew about the attempt to murder Zilwicki's daughter, and given Manticore's current bloody-minded mood, no one was inclined to present any problems whenPottawatomie Creek requested permission to approach HMSImperator and send across a couple of visitors.
* * *
"Your Grace, Captain Zilwicki and . . . guest," Commander George Reynolds announced.
Honor turned from her contemplation of the nearest drifting units of her command, one eyebrow rising, as she tasted the peculiar edge in Reynolds' emotions. She'd decided to meet with Zilwicki as informally as possible, which was why she'd had Reynolds greet him and escort him to the relatively small observation dome just aft of Imperator's forward hammerhead. The panoramic view was spectacular, but it was symbolically outside her own quarters or the official precincts of Flag Bridge.
Now, however, that odd ripple in Reynolds' mind-glow made her wonder if perhaps Zilwicki wouldn't be just as glad as she was to keep this an "unofficial" visit. Reynolds, the son of a liberated genetic slave, was an enthusiastic supporter of the great experiment in Congo, not to mention a personal admirer of Anton Zilwicki and Catherine Montaigne. He'd worked remarkably well with Zilwicki immediately prior to Honor's deployment to the Marsh System, and he'd been delighted when she asked him to meet Zilwicki's cutter. Now, however, he seemed almost . . . apprehensive. That wasn't exactly the right word, but it came close, and she caught Nimitz's matching flicker of interest as the 'cat sat up to his full height on the back of the chair where she'd parked him.
"Captain," she said, holding out her hand.
"Your Grace." Zilwicki's voice was as deep as ever, but it was also a bit more abrupt. Clipped. And as she turned her attention fully to him, she tasted the seething anger his apparently calm exterior disguised.
"I was very sorry to hear about what happened on Torch," Honor said quietly. "But I'm delighted Berry and Ruth got out unscathed."
" 'Unscathed' is an interesting word, Your Grace," Zilwicki rumbled in a voice like crumbling Gryphon granite. "Berry wasn't hurt, not physically, but I don't think 'unscathed' really describes what happened. She blames herself. She knows she shouldn't, and she's one of the sanest people I know, but she blames herself. Not so much for Lara's death, or for all the other people who died, but for having gotten out herself. And, I think, perhaps, for theway Lara died."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Honor repeated. She grimaced. "Survivor's guilt is something I've had to deal with a time or two myself."
"She'll work through it, Your Grace," the angry father said. "As I said, she's one of the sanest people in existence. But this one's going to leave scars, and I hope she'll draw the right lessons from it, not the wrong ones."
"So do I, Captain," Honor said sincerely.
"And speaking of drawing the right lessons—or, perhaps I ought to sayconclusions," he said, "I need to talk to you about what happened."
"I'd be grateful for any insight you can give me. But shouldn't you be talking to Admiral Givens, or perhaps to the SIS?"
"I'm not certain any of the official intelligence organs are ready to hear what I've got to say. And I know they're not ready to listen to . . . my fellow investigator, here."
Honor turned her attention openly and fully to Zilwicki's companion as the captain gestured at him. He was a very young man, she realized. Not particularly distinguished in any way, physically. Of average height—possibly even a little shorter than that—with a build which was no more than wiry, almost callow-looking beside Zilwicki's massively impressive musculature. The hair was dark, the complexion also on the swarthy side, and the eyes were merely brown.
But as she gazed at him and reached out to sample his emotions, she realized this young man was anything but "undistinguished."
In her time, Honor Alexander-Harrington had known quite a few dangerous people. Zilwicki was a case in point, as, in his own lethal way, was young Spencer Hawke, standing alertly to watch her back even here. But this young man had the clear, clean uncluttered taste of a sword. In fact, his mind-glow was as close to that of a treecat as Honor had ever tasted in a human being. Certainly not evil, but . . . direct. Very direct. For treecats, enemies came in two categories: those who'd been suitably dealt with, and those who were still alive. This unremarkable-looking young man's mind-glow was exactly the same, in that regard. There was not a single trace of malice in it. In many ways, it was clear and cool, like a pool of deep, still water. But somewhere in the depths of that pool, Leviathan lurked.
Over the decades, Honor had come to know herself. Not perfectly, but better than most people ever did. She'd faced the wolf inside herself, the aptness to violence, the temper chained by discipline and channeled into protecting the weak, rather than preying upon them. She saw that aspect of herself reflected in the mirrored surface of this young man's still water, and realized with an inner shiver, that he was even more apt to violence than she was. Not because he craved it one bit more than she did, but because of his focus. His purpose.
He wasn't simply Leviathan; this man was
also Juggernaut. Dedicated every bit as much as she to protecting the people and the things about which he cared, and far more ruthless. She could readily sacrifice herself for the things in which she believed; this man could sacrifice anything in their name. Not for personal power. Not for profit. But because his beliefs, and the integrity with which he held them, were too strong for anything else.
But although he was as clean of purpose as a meat-ax, he was no crippled psychopath or fanatic. He would bleed for what he sacrificed. He would simply do it anyway, because he'd looked himself and his soul in the eye and accepted what he found there.
"May I assume, Captain," she said calmly, "that this young man's political associations, shall we say, might make him ever so slightly persona non gratis with those official intelligence organs?"
"Oh, I think you might say that, Your Grace." Zilwicki smiled with very little humor. "Duchess Harrington, allow me to introduce you to Special Officer Victor Cachat of the Havenite Federal Intelligence Service."
Cachat watched her calmly, but she felt the tension ratcheting up behind his expressionless façade. Those "merely brown" eyes were much deeper and darker than she'd first thought, she observed, and they made an admirable mask for whatever was going on behind them.
"Officer Cachat," she repeated in an almost lilting voice. "I've heard some rather remarkable things about you. Including the part you played in Erewhon's recent . . . change of allegiance."
"I hope you don't expect me to say I'm sorry about that, Duchess Harrington." Cachat's voice was as outwardly calm as his eyes, despite a somewhat heightened prickle of apprehension.
"No, of course I don't."
She smiled and stepped back a half-pace, feeling the way Hawke had tightened internally behind her at the announcement of Cachat's identity, before she waved at the dome's comfortable chairs.