The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  Tathagata’s eyes widened. “That’s a serious charge, Colonel. And how, exactly, would that give us an advantage?”

  Simon didn’t answer. He stalked into his bedroom and came out holding a carefully framed photo. “That’s my wedding picture.”

  The deputy minister stared from the picture to Simon and back again, several times. “Yes, I see your point. Very clearly, indeed.” He set the photograph down, very gently. “She was beautiful, Colonel. Can you go back? Without giving way to the anger that they killed her?”

  Simon held his gaze for a long moment, before coming to his decision. “Let me show you something else, Mr. Tathagata. Something not even my daughter knows.”

  The deputy minister frowned slightly, glancing at Sheila, who shook her head, because she didn’t know, either. Simon stepped back into his bedroom and tapped security codes into his computer, shunting the output to the large view-screen in the living room.

  Kafari’s first message began to play. The others followed, in sequence. Simon watched Tathagata through narrowed eyes. After the first moment of stunned, wide-eyed realization, the deputy minister sat forward, intent on every word, every nuance of tone, every fleeting expression that crossed his wife’s face as she spoke. When the last recording finished, Simon closed the messages and locked them again with a security code that not even Yalena was sharp enough to crack, despite her aptitude for psychotronic programming.

  Sahir Tathagata probably could have broken into Simon’s files, given time and incentive, and Sheila’s Bolo would’ve made short work of it, but Simon was fairly certain that neither the Deputy Minister of Military Intelligence nor Captain Brisbane had seen any of those files, before today. It took a fine actor, indeed, to fool a Brigade officer.

  Tathagata sat back, eyes hooded for a long moment. “I presume that your wife has been the recipient of the fairly substantial weapons shipments our labs have sold to your purchasing agent, during the past few years?”

  Simon inclined his head.

  “How are they paying for it?”

  Simon’s smile was a predatory grin that bared his teeth. “They aren’t. Vittori Santorini is.”

  “Come again?”

  “POPPA’s been sheltering assets off-world for a couple of decades, using the Tayari Trade Consortium to transfer large sums of money to the mercantile markets on Vishnu and Mali. They’ve made heavy investments in Mali’s Imari Consortium, in particular. Vittori and Nassiona Santorini are the children of a Tayari Trade Consortium executive. They foresaw very clearly that Imari’s profits and stock prices would soar, with a steady flow of money from the Concordiat fueling expansion. They invested in Imari and other off-world boom markets well before POPPA won its first big election.”

  “When Gifre Zeloc defeated John Andrews for the presidency?”

  Simon nodded. “That money has funded their military machine, at the same time their political programs have bankrupted Jefferson’s economy, destroyed one industry after another, thrown millions of people out of work — placing them in a position of total dependency on government handouts — and gutted agriculture to the point that food rationing has become a serious crisis. Just to give you perspective, the average citizen receiving government food subsidies is allotted one thousand calories a day.”

  “My God!”

  “Oh, it gets better. Political prisoners in POPPA’s so-called work camps are restricted to five hundred calories or less. My wife,” his voice caught for just a moment. “My wife has managed to rescue some of them. Circumstances have forced her to fight an attrition campaign, trying to destroy more of Sonny’s sensors and small-arms weapon systems than POPPA can repair with on-hand replacements. Guerilla fighters get close enough to toss octocellulose bombs at him, from point-blank range. Most of the volunteers who’ve gone up against my Bolo’s guns were rescued work-camp prisoners. And they knew damned well those attacks were suicide missions. They went, anyway.”

  Sahir Tathagata’s jaw muscle jumped in a convulsive tic. “Things are worse than we realized. Substantially worse.”

  “I assume that you have people on the ground, out there?”

  Tathagata grimaced. “We do. In fact, one of them is coming in, tonight, with an up-to-date report. Unfortunately, rigorous inspections at the space station and the spaceport have prevented any of our people from bringing in SWIFT transmitters. The ones that tried were arrested. Most of the agents who slipped through without SWIFT transmitters weren’t able to learn much, I’m afraid. Freighter crews are restricted to the spaceport these days and tourism, even from Mali, has all but ceased. Getting a tourist visa is virtually impossible for most off-worlders. Besides which, Jefferson has closed its best resorts for reconversion to a natural state.” The scathing tone told Simon exactly what Sahir Tathagata thought about the greener side of POPPA’s leadership. “Frankly, I’d like to know how you’ve smuggled in heavy equipment, with that kind of security to bypass.”

  “We borrowed the technique from POPPA. They’ve been smuggling high-value cargoes out of Jefferson — particularly high-quality cuts of meat for trade to Malinese miners — for years and they’re smuggling just as many luxury goods back in, to satisfy their expensive tastes with goods Jefferson can’t manufacture, itself, any longer. They use special routing chips that alert POPPA inspectors to avoid opening or probing specific freight boxes. So we helped ourselves to some of their cargo boxes. We helped ourselves to some of POPPA’s profits, as well, using some sophisticated hacking to break into Jefferson’s financial institutions. We’ve been diverting some of their ill-gotten gains into our weapons-procurement fund.”

  “I see,” the deputy minister said quietly. “You do realize, you’ve just admitted to several very serious crimes?”

  Simon held his gaze steadily. “If you want me to go back into Jefferson, you need to know what’s already been done, don’t you?”

  Tathagata leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Colonel, I think you and I understand one another very well, indeed. When can you go?”

  “That depends on how soon I can make arrangements for Yalena. She’s nineteen, more than self-sufficient enough to leave her here. But I’ll have to arrange finances for her, make sure she has enough money for college. She’s enrolled at Copper Town University and the bills for next semester’s classes will come due in a couple of weeks.”

  “What are you going to tell her?” Tathagata asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “She could stay with me, Simon,” Sheila offered.

  “That’s very generous of you. I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I suggest we map this thing out, as best we can, so everyone is thoroughly briefed on what we’re trying to accomplish.”

  Tathagata nodded. “Fair enough.” The deputy minister’s wrist-comm beeped. “Pardon me,” he apologized, checking the message.

  Whatever it was, his face drained of color. He touched controls. “Understood. On the way.” Then he glanced at Simon. “Trouble at the port. It might be useful if you and Captain Brisbane accompanied me.”

  Simon nodded. “Very well. I’ll get my coat.”

  They set out in a dark and worrisome silence.

  III

  Copper Town’s port-side jail was a filthy place to spend the evening. The holding cell was crammed to capacity, mostly with detainees from the riot. Yalena wasn’t talking to any of them. Her name was too well known on Jefferson to risk letting them know who she was. It wouldn’t take much to turn them into a lynch mob. At the moment, they just thought she was a street-walker picked up in the dragnet Vishnu’s port police had thrown around the riot.

  The police had already processed her through the booking procedures; now she was just waiting for whatever came next and wondering what on earth she could say to her father, to explain why she hadn’t come home, tonight. She’d been in the cell for almost an hour when the door at the end of the corridor clanged open. One of the guards was escorting a newcomer past the row of holding cells. Yal
ena’s breath caught sharply.

  “Daddy…”

  He halted in front of the bars, catching and holding her gaze. He didn’t say a word. She bit her lip and tried not to cry.

  “That’s her,” he said to the guard.

  “All right, then. Out, girl. Stand back, now, the rest of you.”

  The door rattled open. Yalena squeezed through. Her father turned on his heel and left her to follow or not, at her choice. Her heart constricted with a painful lurch. Then she lifted her chin and followed him out. It was better than standing in that horrid cell with refugees who would have killed her without remorse, had anyone spoken her name aloud.

  When they reached the administrative portion of the jail, her father and the guard stepped into an office where several people waited. She blinked in surprise when she saw who they were. Her cousin, Estevao Soteris, was talking to Sheila Brisbane, of all people, the commander of Vishnu’s Bolo. There were a couple of men in suits, who looked like bureaucrats, and a uniformed police officer, who sat at a big desk piled high with reports and files. Seated in a chair beside that desk was a teen-aged girl who turned to watch them enter the room.

  Yalena rocked to a halt. She had to gulp back nausea. No wonder the refugees aboard that freighter had tried to kill those POPPA brats. Yalena’s father had also halted, so abruptly it looked like he’d run into a plate-glass wall. Sudden rage ignited in his eyes. Yalena realized he hadn’t seen the girl, before, either.

  “I’m told,” he said very gently, “that you have a message for me, Miss ben Ruben.”

  She nodded. “It’s in here.” She handed him a thick pouch. Her voice was a hair-raising rasp, like dead fingernails on slate. “Commodore Oroton asked me to put it in your hand, sir, and no other.”

  Sheila Brisbane, eyes glittering with anger of her own, glanced at Yalena’s father for permission, then peered over his shoulder as he opened the sealed pouch and began sorting through its contents. Her father whistled softly. “Mr. Tathagata,” he glanced up at one of the suited bureaucrats, “I think you will find these very interesting, indeed. The good commodore has laid hands on the kind of evidence you need to make our little proposition official.”

  Mr. Tathagata took the documents and glanced through them. Then said softly, “Oh, yes. These are, indeed, what we have needed. Mr. Girishanda,” he glanced at the other suited bureaucrat, “my compliments on a mission exceedingly well done.” He then turned with a grave demeanor to the girl with the ruined face. “Miss ben Ruben, you cannot know how grateful the government of Vishnu is. Your testimony, added to these documents, is sufficient evidence to involve ourselves on your behalf. We had no idea,” he added, voice shaking with reaction, “that they were committing wholesale genocide.”

  Yalena caught her breath sharply. Genocide?

  “You’re going to stop it?” Miss ben Ruben asked.

  Mr. Tathagata glanced at Yalena’s father before answering. “That’s the idea, yes.” He then turned, surprisingly, to Yalena, herself. “Miss Khrustinova, how many students, precisely, have joined your freedom network?”

  Dismay skittered along Yalena’s nerves. “How did you know about that?” she squeaked.

  He almost smiled. Almost. “I am with the Ministry of Defense, Miss Khrustinova. Hostilities between Granger students and those loyal to POPPA have been far too volatile to risk ignoring the situation. Tonight’s riot was surprising only because it didn’t occur much sooner. We have been aware of your group and its activities for quite some time. Your cause is a worthy one, although your methods,” he added with another faint smile, eying her scandalous dress, “are somewhat unorthodox.”

  Heat scalded Yalena’s cheeks. “When you’re working an espionage gig, plying spacers with drinks and persuading them to tell you what they’ve seen, you have to wear the right camouflage. This,” she indicated the clinging wisp wrapped around her curves, “is just a uniform.”

  She was speaking to Mr. Tathagata, but watching her father.

  It was her father who answered. “A damned effective one, too. But you’ll need a different one, if you plan to go back.”

  “Go — back?” Her heart thudded so hard, it hurt.

  “Oh, yes. Your cousin and I have already spoken.” His gaze flicked to Estevao Soteris. “We’ll be outfitting the combat veterans coming in, as part of a strike force. Your student group — which I did not know about, you devious little fire eater — will also play a role, if you’re interested. Deputy Minister Tathagata has agreed to spend the next couple of days overseeing additional preparations.”

  “We’re going to invade? With Vishnu’s help?” She didn’t believe it. She glanced from Tathagata to Sheila Brisbane. “Is the Brigade involved in this, too?”

  “Not directly,” Captain Brisbane said. “Nor officially. Not yet, anyway. That may change, depending on the way events unfold.”

  “How are we going in?” she asked, returning her gaze to her father. “The Bolo would shoot us to pieces before we could even land a strike force.”

  “Yes, he probably would,” her father agreed, “if we were landing a hostile strike force. But we have something a little different in mind. Sonny’s been damaged. Badly, as it happens.”

  “By the resistance?” Yalena asked sharply. “Commodore Oroton?”

  Her father’s eyes reflected sudden pain. “Yes,” he said in a hoarse voice full of dread. “Commodore Oroton…” He drew a rasping breath. “Oh, hell,” he swore suddenly, “there’s no easy way to say it. Commodore Oroton is your mother.”

  His words slammed through her like live electrical current. The room wavered at the edges. She felt her knees turn to water and grabbed for the door jamb. “Mother?” she whispered. Yalena tried to focus her gaze, but the room remained a blur. “She’s… alive?”

  Misery burned in her father’s voice. “Yes.”

  Her emotions were exploding out of control, grief and joy and tearing anguish for the time lost and the terrible burden of guilt she had carried for so many years. The pain of her father’s lie tore great gashes through her heart, making it hard to breathe.

  “Yalena,” he said, “please try to understand—”

  She put her whole weight behind the punch. “You sorry-assed son-of-a-bitch!”

  He staggered. Then blotted the blood from his nose. He said nothing.

  Yalena stood shaking in the middle of the floor, eyes hot, throat tight, fist aching all the way to her shoulder, where the blow had connected. She hated him for the agonizing years behind that lie — and hated herself far more, for making the lie necessary. She finally lifted drowned eyes, feeling like a battered and unlovable toad, forced herself to meet his gaze. What she saw made her insides flinch. The hellfire shadows of Etaine burned in his eyes, worse than she had ever seen them.

  She had put that look in his eyes. Her insides flinched from that, too.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered. Then broke down into helpless, wrenching sobs. His arms came around her and she dissolved against his shoulder. When the worst of the storm had passed, she gulped and regained control of her voice, although it wavered unsteadily. “Daddy?”

  “Yes?” He didn’t sound angry.

  “How soon can we leave?”

  He tipped her face up, peered into her eyes. The shadows had retreated, leaving his eyes warm and human, again. “That’s my girl,” he smiled. “As to that, as soon as possible. We have to wait for Mr. Tathagata’s people to arrange for the technicians, the spare parts, and the munitions Santorini ordered from Shiva Weapons Labs. If Shiva can expedite the order, it might be as soon as a week.”

  “All right. We’ll have to do something about classes…”

  Mr. Tathagata spoke up. “We’ll speak to the university officials on behalf of anyone in your group who wants to go. We’ll arrange for the professors to grant approved incompletions for the classes and we’ll be sure the registrar grants permission to interrupt studies without loss of academic standing or admission status.
If necessary, my ministry will pay tuition fees for completing this semester’s work at some future date. I’m well aware of the financial standing of most Granger students. Your volunteers will need that kind of financial help, if most of you hope to finish school.”

  “Why would you do that?” Yalena asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m taking the long view and considering it as part of Vishnu and Mali’s defense plan. POPPA must be destroyed, but your freedom fighters will have to do a good bit more than win this fight, Miss Khrustinova. You’ll also have to rebuild your homeworld’s economy, your education system, everything that POPPA’s tampered with or destroyed. Jefferson and Vishnu and Mali need one another, financially and militarily. If Jefferson collapses into barbarism, it will damage us in ways we’d really rather avoid.”

  “I see. Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, sir. That will mean a great deal to us. All right, I’ll tell everyone to start packing.” When she glanced into her father’s eyes, saw not only approval, but also dawning pride, an emotion that blazed like a glint of sunlight on quicksilver. For the first time, Yalena felt like she just might earn the right to say, I’m Simon Khrustinov’s daughter. And Kafari Khrustinova’s.

  By the time she and her family had finished their work, Vittori Santorini was going to wish they’d never been born.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I

  Rain slashes down from yet another storm, pouring off my battered warhull in rivers and waterfalls I can feel, but cannot see. The water and my warhull are so closely matched in temperature, there is very little heat difference to give the water a distinct IR signature. It has been raining almost nonstop for a week. I lie in the mud, a flintsteel whale beached on an inhospitable shore. I spend most of my time only semiaware, in a state more conscious than retreat to my survival center, but less awake than Standby Alert.