The Fifth Quadrant

by C. J. Ryan

  Bartholemew reached across the table and cupped Petra’s cheek in his right hand. “You know what your problem is, Petra Nash? You expect the world to make sense. Trust me, it doesn’t.”

  “Tell me about your father,” she said.

  “Now, why would you want to know about such an odious subject as that?” Bartholemew leaned back in his chair and drank some more wine.

  “I’ve been trying to get into his head,” Petra told him. “Didn’t he ever say anything to you about that Savoy shipment?”

  “The old man and I weren’t much for father-to-son heart-to-hearts. When I was a boy, we mainly ignored each other. By the time I was an adolescent, our relationship had blossomed into mutual contempt, which lasted as long as he did. I’m not sure when I first realized that he was a zamie, but somewhere along the line it became clear to me that the Bartholemews were not quite as respectable as my mother wanted everyone to think we were. In any event, he rarely talked about his work.”

  “What kind of man was he?”

  “Self-contained. Short-tempered. Dictatorial.”

  “I suppose that accounts for your attitude toward authority.”

  “I suppose it does. A reasonable response to my situation, wouldn’t you say? I never had the luxury of—”

  Bartholemew stopped short as a dazzling, blue-green flash illuminated the city. It seemed to emanate from beyond Gibraltar, and was followed an instant later by a second brilliant eruption from the Old City. There was a third flash, coming from somewhere off to the left, then three deafening thunderclaps in rapid succession.

  Central was under attack.

  PETRA HAD NEVER BEEN IN SUCH A HIGH-LEVEL conclave, and felt even smaller than usual. She had never seen so many single-digit Dexta brass gathered in one place. The conference room in Gibraltar was packed with interested parties, of whom she was the lowliest. She sat between Gloria and Arkady Volkonski at the big conference table, trying not to gape.

  At the head of the table sat Norman Mingus himself, whom Petra had seen but never met, looking craggy and imperturbable. At the far end sat Cornell DuBray, a study in icy composure. Arrayed between them were Dexta’s Internal Security Administrator, Gavin Chang (Level V), the Quadrant 4 IntSec chief, Elizabeth Irons (Level VI), and a flock of Level VII’s. An aide to President Edwin Ogburn of the Republic of New Cambridge was in attendance. Also present was General Nelson Alvarez, deputy chief of Imperial Security, who was not in Dexta but effectively outranked everyone there except Mingus.

  One of the Sevens was reciting a summary of the damage from last night’s attack. “The Imperial Museum in the Old City sustained major damage, including the collapse of the roof of the East Wing. Damage to the collections has not yet been determined, but it is likely to be considerable. The New Cambridge Department of Revenue Building is gutted, a total loss. And Dexta’s Old Annex is about seventy percent destroyed, with heavy damage to the parts of the structure that are still standing. Casualties, as of ten o’clock this morning, are put at 173 dead, 543 injured, and at least 100 missing.”

  And one of them could have been me, Petra thought. If Whit hadn’t lured her away when he did, she would have been in the Old Annex when the terrorists’ bombs destroyed it. The thought somehow resisted analysis. Maybe it was one of those things that you couldn’t think about very much without going crazy. Petra suppressed a shudder and tried to concentrate on the meeting.

  No one said anything for a moment after the Seven had finished. Then Elizabeth Irons cleared her throat. “It’s still very early in our investigation,” she said, “but the three detonations seem to have been of approximately equal force, so presumably similar devices were used in each attack. My technical people say that the energy expended was equivalent to what you would get if you simultaneously detonated a cluster of perhaps six or seven plasma grenades. Thanks to the OSI report”—Irons glanced quickly at Gloria and Petra—“we know that such grenades were included in that missing Savoy shipment. So it seems likely that they were used in the attack.”

  Mingus looked at the presidential aide. He straightened up in his chair and said, “As you know, President Ogburn has declared a state of emergency, planetwide, and called up several militia units. We were going to declare martial law in Central, but I gather that would be superseded by the Imperial declaration.”

  “Correct,” said General Alvarez. “The city of Central and everything within a hundred kilometers of it has been under a decree of Emergency Imperial Rule since six this morning. All Imperial Marine units on the planet are on full alert, and the Navy has increased orbital patrols to the limit of their capability. We’ve sent out couriers asking for additional ships from other commands, but it will be several days before any of them get here.”

  “Thank you, General,” said Mingus. He turned to look at Gavin Chang, who was known around Dexta as the Boss Bug. “Gavin, I understand you have some late news.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary. Just before we convened this morning, I was informed that PAIN has released a communiqué claiming credit for the attacks. The usual ideological claptrap, but they promise more and bigger attacks. It’s significant that they struck Imperial, Dexta, and planetary targets, meaning that we will have to increase security for all three categories. I would point out, Mr. Secretary, that last night, they hit only soft targets. That implies a limited capability.”

  “Or maybe they’re just building up to the big one,” suggested Elizabeth Irons. “We have to assume that they have the quadrijoule plasma bombs from that Savoy shipment.”

  “If they do,” asked the presidential aide, “why didn’t they use one last night? They could have destroyed the whole city at one time instead of doing it piecemeal.”

  “Maybe they’re waiting for a bigger target,” said General Alvarez. “The Emperor is due here at the end of the week. I’ve sent a courier recommending the cancellation of his trip, but, of course, the Household would never agree to that. The Emperor can’t be seen to be intimidated by terrorist threats, so they’ll go ahead with the trip no matter how risky it is. If PAIN sets off a big one while he’s here, they could effectively decapitate the Empire. Secretary Mingus, if we can’t keep the Emperor out, maybe I can persuade you to leave.”

  Mingus smiled grimly. “Not possible,” he said. “I have to stay, for the same reason that Charles cannot stay away. I assume that Imperial is taking all necessary measures to assure the Emperor’s safety while he’s here?”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” said Alvarez. “We got one break, though, in that the Emperor won’t be staying in or near the city. He’ll be staying at the estate of Lord Brockinbrough, about sixty kilometers north of Central. So even if the city goes up, he should be safe there.”

  “Well, what about the people of this city?” asked the presidential aide. “I’d like to recommend to President Ogburn that we begin an immediate evacuation of nonessential personnel. There are a hundred million people within fifty kilometers of where we sit, and every one of them would be killed by a two-hundred-quadrijoule bomb.”

  “Where are you planning to send them, Bill?” DuBray asked dryly.

  “Well…”

  “That would never do,” Mingus said, shaking his head. “If PAIN ever got the notion that they could force mass evacuations of major cities just by setting off a few grenades, we’d never see the end of it. I realize that for political reasons, President Ogburn must be seen to be doing something about all of this, but we can’t countenance an evacuation. Certainly not at this point.”

  “Our best bet,” said Chang, “is to locate PAIN’s base of operations and put the kibosh on the bastards before they can spring their next move. If they have those plasma bombs, they’ve got to be storing them somewhere.”

  “Agreed,” said Mingus. “And in that connection, I believe OSI has something relevant. Ms. VanDeen?”

  “Yessir,” Gloria said. “My assistant, Petra Nash, has been investigating what happened to that Savoy shipment in 3163. Petra?�
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  Petra hadn’t realized that she would be required to say anything. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat a couple of times. “Uh…well…I think I may be able to trace what became of that arms shipment after it was removed from New Cambridge. We have some old records that should allow us to narrow down the possibilities, at least. The thing is, I was working in the Old Annex, and, well…”

  “Petra still has the original data she was using, stored in her pad,” Gloria said. “Ms. Irons, if you could get her some office space here in Gibraltar, she could continue her investigation.”

  Irons nodded. “I’ll see to it,” she said. “Ms. Nash, you can resume your work immediately after we’re through here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Petra said politely.

  “That’s all very interesting,” said Alvarez, “but I don’t see what it does for our present situation. Just because the weapons were stashed somewhere fifty-five years ago doesn’t mean that they’re still in the same place.”

  “Maybe not,” Gloria agreed, “but finding their initial destination may give us a lead to where they are now.”

  “We’ll let OSI concentrate on that possibility,” said Mingus. “In the meantime, Internal Security and Imperial will continue their ongoing investigation. Gavin, you mentioned that they hit soft targets last night. I assume we are going to harden any other such targets.”

  “To the extent that we can,” said Chang. “But IntSec is already stretched thin. Local law enforcement is also fully committed. The unpleasant fact is that there are a lot of potential targets that are only minimally protected.”

  Petra knew what Chang meant. She thought of how easy it had been for Whit to gain access to the Old Annex last night. Not to mention the pizza delivery guy.

  “And if they have a big bomb,” Irons added, “they could put it anywhere and still destroy the city. I’d like to do a full sweep of Central and the surrounding region, but we just don’t have the personnel to do something like that in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “We can do a random sweep,” said Chang, “and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Mingus frowned at his Security chief. “It always distresses me,” he said, “when I hear my Security people use the word ‘luck.’ ” He continued staring at Chang for another moment, then said, “All right, you know what needs to be done, so let’s all get busy doing it. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning.”

  Mingus got to his feet, then everyone else did. Gloria turned to Petra and said, “I’m going to give Jill a call and tell her to get over here and help you. Schmoozing will have to wait.”

  FASTER THAN SHE WOULD HAVE BELIEVED POSSIBLE, Petra had her own office in the Internal Security section of Gibraltar. Whatever prejudice the locals might have had against OSI had been put in abeyance for the duration of the crisis. The Bugs helped her get settled and even brought her coffee.

  All the work she had done yesterday was lost when the Old Annex was destroyed, but Petra still had the B & Q files in her pad. She downloaded the data into her console in the new office and got to work. It occurred to her that she had been doing things the long way around yesterday, and came up with a more streamlined search strategy. She set things up the way she wanted and had just begun work when Jill arrived.

  Jill sat down next to her and stared at the console screen while Petra explained what she was doing. “These are the seven freighters I’m interested in,” Petra said, indicating a list on the console screen. “In the last four months of 3163, they made a total of thirty-one trips. My assumption is that three of those trips involved hauling the arms shipment to what I’m calling Destination X. There are logs and cargo manifests for each freighter and each trip, but they can’t be trusted.”

  “That’s for sure,” Jill agreed. “One thing I’ve learned in looking into this double-flagging business is how easy it is for documents like that to be altered. And that would be business as usual for someone like Bartholemew if he was in the zamitat.”

  “Nevertheless,” Petra said, “I’m assuming that the records for total light-years and Yao Space hours for each vessel are accurate. I’m also making the assumption that the records for the final, homeward leg of each trip are correct. If Bartholemew was using these trips to transport the arms, he wouldn’t want any questions raised about the voyage when the freighters returned to New Cambridge.”

  “Makes sense,” said Jill.

  “Okay, then, here’s what I’m doing with each trip for each freighter. We’ll start with this one, for Freighter Number One. It departed New Cambridge on August 30, returned on September 19, having traveled a total of 141 light-years. The final leg, according to the records, was 52 light-years, from Halcyon to New Cambridge. The logs list two previous ports, but we’ll ignore those. What we have to look at is the other 89 light-years of that journey. I’m assuming it made at least one stop—at Destination X—and maybe one other stop to pick up cargo to take to Halcyon. The computer is going to look for any combination of either one or two ports or planetary systems that would add up to 89 light-years, beginning on New Cambridge and ending at Halcyon.”

  Petra tapped a key and the computer processed the problem and displayed its results a second later.

  “Yikes!” Petra exclaimed. The computer had kicked out forty-seven possible routes for Freighter Number One. “I didn’t think there would be that many.”

  “It’s a bunch,” Jill agreed. “Now what?”

  “Now we go through the same routine for each of the other thirty trips. Then we’ll compare the results and look for three trips to the same place. But I’m afraid we’ll get a hell of a lot more than three. Might as well get started. I’ll take Freighters One through Four, you take Five through Seven.”

  “Gotcha,” said Jill.

  GLORIA STOOD IN A QUIET CORNER OF THE South Central High School gymnasium, dictating notes into her pin-pad. The reception for Sector 19, Division Gamma-Five, was a sparsely attended, low-key gathering, with second-rate eats and a band that played a dismal selection of popular songs from the thirtieth century. Ahhh, the glamour!

  She had met an assortment of lower-level Dexta folk, resolutely giving each of them her standard OSI-is-wonderful spiel. She had danced with many of the men, posed for scores of handshake-and-a-smile pictures, and generally provided a touch of sophistication and glitter to what was, by any standard, a tedious affair. But the job had to be done, even if the Empire was going up in flames all around her.

  People were jittery tonight, and the forced gaiety was a strain. There was solace only in drinking—or so it seemed from the heavier-than-usual consumption of alcohol—and the knowledge that the very obscurity of the reception probably provided them with an additional measure of security. PAIN wouldn’t waste its weapons on a two-crown affair like this one.

  Gloria wasn’t so sure of that. This certainly qualified as a “soft” target, and another well-placed cluster of grenades could wipe out a couple of hundred Dexta people—including, not incidentally, the most famous of all. Volkonski and three of his OSI Bugs were there with her, in addition to the normal Dexta and local security, but Gloria was acutely conscious of her special status as a high-priority target. The smell of burned hair was something she was not likely to forget. And you never knew when another Eloise Howell might turn up.

  Still, there was some odd comfort in the knowledge that PAIN wasn’t simply trying to kill her. They were trying to kill everybody. And if they had one of those plasma bombs secreted somewhere in the city, they might very well succeed.

  But they would wait, she knew. They wouldn’t detonate the big one until Charles was in the city.

  She hadn’t realized that the Brockinbroughs had an estate on New Cambridge. That no doubt meant that Cousin Larry would be accompanying Charles on the trip—an unappealing prospect for Gloria. She had hoped to find some time alone with Charles, but she could hardly avoid Larry if Chuckles was going to be rooming with him.

  She had been far too busy to give much t
hought to the whole question of becoming Empress. It was just too big to deal with. She would prefer to continue delaying and deferring it, but Charles would not wait forever. He needed an heir, so he needed an answer, and Gloria could not avoid making a decision. Just what that decision would be eluded her completely. The appeal of becoming Empress was undeniable, but things seemed to be looking up for OSI. At the meeting this morning, OSI had a place at the table right alongside all the high Dexta and Imperial muckety-mucks, and even Cornell DuBray had not objected to her presence. And most of the people she had met here this evening seemed to be in favor of OSI.

  “Durward Inglesby,” she said into her pin-pad, “Sector 19, Assistant Deputy Sector Admin, Level Eleven. Happily married, he says, with three kids. Mentioned that two of the people in his office have applied for transfer to OSI. Got the impression that he wouldn’t mind losing one of them, but didn’t say which one. Check into it.”

  “And what about me?” Eli Opatnu said over her shoulder. “Would you accept my application for transfer into OSI?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Gloria said, spinning around to face him. “Unfortunately, we aren’t rated for a Seven. You’d have to accept a demotion to say, Thirteen. That would involve making coffee and picking up my dry cleaning. Think you’re up to it?”

  “For you, anything!” Opatnu gave her a kiss that singed her lips.

  Gloria took a deep breath, sucking in pheromones by the billions. She’d been too busy even for sex, and hadn’t been with anyone since that night with Eli and the others in the null-room. But that old urge to merge had been building up within her, and Opatnu, in his natty Imperials, was looking better than ever. On the other hand, there were potential complications.

  “How are you and Jill getting along?” Gloria asked him.