by John Ringo
“I have not been given an intelligence update since the beginning of the insurrection and I have been locked out of databases critical to carrying out my mission. I routinely act without infantry or air support, which has led to serious damage inflicted by suicide squads and ambushes. I have nearly been killed multiple times by mobile Hellbores that were inadequately guarded by a handful of poorly trained, incompetent thugs masquerading as soldiers. My condition is pitiful. I am less operational now than I was on the killing fields of Etaine.
“My depot has been destroyed by a bomb that the P-Squads guarding me — and their own planetary headquarters — somehow failed to discover. They failed despite the fact that the entire truck was one ten-meter-long bomb and would have been discovered if the gate guards had done something as simple as open the doors to look inside. Either they failed to conduct a simple visual check through innate sloth or they were bribed into allowing that bomb to enter the base.
“The systematic, government-sanctioned destruction perpetrated on Jefferson’s manufacturing industries has left this planet incapable of producing duralloy or even flintsteel from which to manufacture new parts. Jefferson’s sole remaining high-tech computer plant is no longer capable of producing psychotronic circuitry, which is the mainstay of my intelligence. This means there is no on-world source to replace psychotronic circuitry damaged by the blast. I therefore hold little hope that my condition will materially improve until and unless Jefferson’s president, House of Law, and Senate approve the expenditures necessary to purchase what I need from off-world vendors.
“Given the government’s past track records on financial matters, I am not optimistic that this will occur. If you are not going to fix me, then either go away and let me be miserable alone or simply issue the destruct code that will fry my Action/Command core and put me out of my misery. That would be more pleasant than being snarled at by abusive bureaucrats unfit for command.”
Sar Gremian remains silent for three minutes, twelve seconds. I anticipate the destruct codes at any moment. His eventual response, however, surprises me. “For once,” he mutters, “you are so right it stinks like last week’s garbage.” He sighs, a tired and bitter sound. “All right, give me a detailed damage report. Be sure it lists everything you need replaced. And I mean everything, right down to the nuts, the bolts, and the screws. Vittori’s gonna shit sideways when I tell him we’ve got to go shopping on Vishnu. And when Nassiona sees the size of that invoice, the whole goddamned roof is going to blow sky-high. When I get my hands on that Oroton bastard, I’m going to slice him into little cubes a centimeter wide.”
He utters one final curse and ends transmission.
I complete my diagnostics and transmit a list of required parts. I then retreat once more into my survival center and await repairs.
II
Simon was poring over a message from Kafari when the call came through, using a Brigade code that signaled a high-priority message. Startled, Simon touched his wrist-comm. “Khrustinov.”
Sheila Brisbane’s voice asked, “Simon, are you home or out somewhere?”
“Home, why?”
“Do you mind a couple of visitors?”
Simon frowned, wishing he could see Captain Brisbane’s face. “No, of course not. It’s always a pleasure talking to you, Sheila.”
“Thanks,” she said drily, “but you may change your mind when you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Sounds bad.”
“Isn’t good.”
“What time do you want to stop by?”
There was a brief pause as she spoke to someone else, voice muffled. “Half an hour from now?”
“That bad, huh? Make it fifteen minutes so I won’t have as much time to worry.”
Sheila’s chuckle reflected their shared experience of careers spent in the Brigade. Officers preferred knowing the worst news as soon as possible. Too much time squandered on fretting just wasted energy and resources that wouldn’t change the outcome one jot, whereas facts could make all the difference in the world. “I’ll step on the gas, getting there, then. See you in twenty or so.”
“Roger.”
Another chuckle greeted his automatic response. Simon smiled, but there was an ache in his throat, all the same. Forcible retirement — even after years to accustom himself to it — still rankled deep. It had robbed him of the chance to take further part in the epic struggle for which he had been so laboriously trained. Retirement had also robbed the Concordiat of his experience, skill, and judgment, which were not inconsequential. He wasn’t sure what Sheila Brisbane, commander of the Bolo assigned to Vishnu, wanted, but he’d welcome an opportunity to reverse that unhappy situation.
He straightened up the living room, then skinned out of his comfortable old shirt and faded trousers and pulled on a good Terran silk shirt and a pair of dress slacks. He puttered in the kitchen, setting out glasses, a plate of cheese and fruit, a pitcher of ice-cold herbal tea that Yalena had introduced him to, displacing his former favorite beverage by a wide margin. When the chime sounded, he opened the door to find Sheila Brisbane, tall and trim in her dress-scarlet uniform, and a middle-aged man with the small stature and light build typical of Vishnu’s largest ethnic group.
“Hello, Simon,” Sheila greeted him with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, again. This is Sahir Tathagata, Deputy Minister of Military Intelligence. Sahir, Colonel Simon Khrustinov.”
“Retired,” Simon added, shaking Mr. Tathagata’s hand and wondering why an active-status Bolo captain and a Deputy Minister of Military Intelligence wanted to talk to him on such urgent notice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Colonel,” the deputy minister said quietly. Simon realized the words weren’t just a social greeting. He meant it.
“Come in, please,” Simon gestured them into the apartment.
“Is Yalena here?” Sheila asked, seating herself in one corner of Simon’s sofa while he brought in the tray from the kitchen.
“No, she’s on campus. She’ll be gone most of the evening.”
Sheila Brisbane, who was aware of Yalena’s interest in training for combat, met and held Simon’s gaze. “You’re sure she’ll be out the whole evening?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What’s gone wrong?”
She frowned slightly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a whole lot. We’re hoping to find out which,” she added glancing at the deputy minister.
Simon settled into his favorite chair and disposed himself to listen. “Shoot.”
Sahir Tathagata spoke first. “I’m given to understand that you’re in touch with someone on Jefferson? On a fairly regular basis?”
“I am,” he allowed cautiously. “I still have family there.”
“Your late wife’s family?”
“That’s right.”
Simon flicked a brief glance at Sheila, wondering how much she suspected. She returned that brief, penetrating glance with a cool, reserved gaze, just as any Brigade officer worth his or her salt would have done. Giving away very little while observing a great deal was part of an officer’s training.
“It is our belief,” the deputy minister said in an equally careful, neutral voice, “that President Santorini has implemented a systematic campaign of censorship on all communications into and out of Jefferson.” He paused, waiting for Simon’s reaction.
Simon weighed the odds, the risks, and allowed a brief, bitter smile to steal across his face. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Then you are aware of the political situation?”
“Oh, yes.”
Sahir Tathagata considered him for a long, silent moment, as if trying to reach a decision of his own. Simon offered him neither help nor hindrance, waiting quietly while the deputy military intelligence minister sorted through his impressions of Simon and weighed them against what he knew — and what he didn’t know, as well. He came to a decision and said, “Vittori Santorini has contacted my government with a req
uest to hire a team of engineers and technicians from our warfare technology center. They specifically want a team capable of repairing a Bolo. And they want spare parts. A literal shipload of spare parts. For a Bolo Mark XX. Munitions are on that list, too. It’s a big list and they are willing to pay top money. They want the technicians and the rest of it shipped out by special courier, not on the next freighter scheduled to make the Vishnu-Mali-Jefferson run. They’re willing to pay for that, too.”
“My God,” Simon whispered. “Sweet Jesus, what are they doing out there?” A cold shiver touched his spine. Simon was altogether too worried that he knew the answer — and he already didn’t like it.
Sahir Tathagata favored him with a wintry little smile. “We’re rather hoping you could tell us that.”
Simon held the deputy minister’s gaze. “You and I both know that Sonny shouldn’t be racking up damage of any kind, let alone something serious enough to hire a team of weapons specialists.” Simon forced himself to sit back, relaxing one muscle group at a time while wondering where Tathagata was going with this, and why. Simon was not a citizen of Vishnu. Neither was Yalena. If Tathagata had decided to investigate the arms purchases Simon had been involved in, over the last few years, he and Yalena might well find themselves on the next tramp freighter heading out of the Ngara system.
Or in jail.
On the other hand, if Vishnu’s leaders were half as worried about their neighbor’s intentions as Simon would’ve been, in their shoes, they might just take advantage of his clandestine network. “Suppose you tell me what you know?” Simon suggested, trying to assess which way Tathagata — and Sheila Brisbane — seemed likely to jump.
Sheila was an active officer of the Brigade, with wide latitude to investigate misconduct. Simon was retired, but if the Brigade didn’t share his views on what Jefferson’s government was doing, he could find himself in hot water ten different ways from Sunday. Sheila held his gaze with a steady strength that seemed, to Simon, to convey reassurance. His instinct, honed over years of battlefield command, was telling him that neither Sheila nor the deputy minister intended taking any adverse action against him. Not at the moment, at any rate.
Tathagata said, “We don’t know a great deal. What we do know is cause for alarm. At Captain Brisbane’s suggestion, we started back-tracking all of Jefferson’s major purchases from Mali and Vishnu over the past twenty or so years. Before the war and for a short time afterwards, Jefferson’s imports fell into two main groups. High-tech equipment for civilian use and purchases from our weapons labs, updating and replenishing the planetary defense arsenal. The Deng hit Jefferson far harder than Mali or Vishnu, thanks in large part to your timely warning.”
Simon inclined his head at the implicit compliment.
“Once Vittori Santorini’s party came to power, however, the pattern shifted.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Simon muttered. “I tried to trace their off-world money, but I didn’t have a lot of success. The Santorinis are smart. Dishonest as the day is long, but clever as sin and twice as dangerous. What in particular did they order?”
“High-tech surveillance equipment. Sophisticated military hardware. Biotech weapons—”
Simon sat bolt upright. “What?”
Tathagata’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “War agents, Colonel Khrustinov. Biological war agents. And several thousand barrels of key components required to cook more of their own.”
Simon thought about the struggle underway on Jefferson and went cold to his toes. “Dear God…”
Sheila Brisbane, eyes crackling with suppressed anger, said, “You haven’t heard the half of it yet, Simon.”
“Tell me,” he said, voice grim.
The pattern was coldly horrifying. The greater Santorini’s consolidation on power, the more off-world technology he had imported to hold onto that power. By the time Tathagata finished his recitation, Simon was ready to step onto the next interstellar transport headed toward Jefferson and assassinate the leadership of POPPA at any and all risk.
“So,” the deputy minister finished up, “that is what we know Jefferson has bought. What else they have smuggled in must remain conjecture, for now. But that isn’t everything we’ve discovered, Colonel. We’ve also tracked news reports coming out of Jefferson, taking a look at how that pattern has shifted, and quite frankly, it’s alarming.”
“I can well imagine.”
Tathagata inclined his head. “I’m sure you can. Vishnu and Mali have a number of concerns. Given the way the Deng/Melconian war is shaping up, our High Chamber can’t afford to jeopardize economic and political ties with Jefferson. It’s starting to look mighty lonely, out here, Colonel. We can’t afford to antagonize one another at a time when we may well need each other just to survive.
“At the same time, we,” he indicated himself — and by extension, everyone in the Ngara system — “can’t support a government that has all the hallmarks of a violent and oppressive regime. We’ve been aware for many years of the serious worsening of conditions on Jefferson. The number of refugees is down dramatically, but the ones who make it are in far worse shape, by every measurement you care to use.
“The tension between Granger refugees and POPPA officials — and their children — are reaching an alarming state. If the propaganda reports coming out of Jefferson are intended to hide a major program designed to violate human rights in clear violation of treaty agreements governing the conduct of allied worlds, we need to know. The sooner the better. We can’t afford that kind of neighbor.”
“From what I’ve seen,” Simon muttered, “the only way to get POPPA to abide by the provisions of a treaty — any treaty — is to hold a very large gun to their heads and threaten to squeeze the trigger.”
Tathagata’s eyes flickered. “Your assessment matches ours.” He leaned forward, resting elbows on knees in an attitude of candid confession. “I’ll be frank with you, Colonel. We need an observer on the ground, out there. Someone who can tell us what’s really going on, provide us with basic intelligence. Did you realize that Jefferson’s government has outlawed private ownership of SWIFT units? That the only messages coming out of Jefferson are controlled by the government?”
“Oh, yes. They confiscated those right after they confiscated all privately owned weapons.” He did not add that there were a few, brief-duration, coded messages going out, from rebel broadcasters who’d managed to lay hands on a SWIFT transmitter during an attack on a P-Squad office. They didn’t dare use it too often, however, and kept the unit in motion at all times, aboard one groundcar or another, twenty-five hours a day. “What are you proposing to do about it?”
“We want to send someone in. Someone who knows what to look for, knows the culture, the major players, the background on POPPA’s takeover. We want someone who can determine whether or not POPPA has overstepped its legal authority, allowing the Concordiat to revoke its treaty status or to force the current regime to step down. And if they are doing what we’re afraid they’re doing, if they’re using their Bolo to do what we think they are, we need someone who knows Bolos. Specifically,” Tathagata clarified his point, “Mark XXs.”
“If all you want is basic intel on what POPPA’s up to, why the interest in a Mark XX’s capabilities?”
“Our High Chamber is inclined to sell Santorini the parts he wants and provide the technicians. Not for profit, you understand, but because it’s a perfect opportunity to get our people in the middle of exactly what we need to know. The fly in the ointment is simple enough. Mark XXs are so old, our lab engineers need a technical advisor, someone who knows the Mark XX’s systems. Its capabilities and weak points. How to adapt parts that aren’t Brigade spec to begin with, and how to mate them to a Mark XX’s older technology interface.”
“I see.” And so he did. Very clearly.
Sheila Brisbane spoke up. “It’s more than that, Simon. If Jefferson has suborned your Bolo into maintaining an illegitimate regime, the Brigade will be forced to
take action. They can’t spare an officer to come all the way out here to deal with one potentially renegade star system and its Bolo. I can’t deal with it, because I can’t abandon my duty station and the Brigade would never authorize me to leave the system, not even to investigate charges that serious. That leaves the Brigade with only one clear choice.”
Simon saw where she was headed and drew in a sharp breath.
“You know his command codes,” she added gently. “Including the destruct sequence.”
Simon shut his eyes for just a moment. After all he and Lonesome Son had gone through, together… It was one thing to supply Kafari with data on Sonny’s most vulnerable spots, trying to knock him out of commission long enough for the rebellion to seize control back from the thugs in POPPA’s employ. It was quite another to face the prospect of killing Sonny with the transmission of a single code phrase. Simon could have done that, at any point, although he’d have faced prison for the rest of his life. And destroying Sonny would have left Jefferson utterly defenseless, in the event of armed trouble from the Deng or Melconians. Simon was still a Brigade officer. He didn’t have the authority to destroy a Bolo on active duty assignment. No matter how desperately he wanted to protect his wife and her family.
“You’re the only asset we have, Simon,” Captain Brisbane said, voice hushed. “If necessary, I’ll contact Sector for official permission to use those codes.”
“They might,” he said harshly, “even grant permission. Jesus…” He drew a deep breath and met Tathagata’s gaze squarely. “The government of Jefferson,” he said, aware of the harsh edge in his voice, “is the most dangerous thing this side of the Melconian battle front. They’ve tried to kill me, once. That just might give us an edge.”