“So,” Michael said, “just to be clear, does this long game you’re talking about include the local Mayor? The Governor? The Autarch?”
“The Mayor and the Governor, yes. Our activities have stayed somewhat below the level of the planetary Autarch.” Sokolov gave Michael a tight little smile. “Though his Chief of Staff is entirely in our pocket.”
Michael smiled. “Good to know.”
The building shook. It shook again. The man and woman who had accompanied Sokolov looked at each other and pulled their guns, facing the doorway. “See what’s happening,” Sokolov said.
The door exploded and six Imperial marines dressed in armor swarmed into the room. “Drop your weapons,” Dustin Nye said. The man and woman glanced at each other, dropped their guns to the floor and raised their hands.
“Sir,” Dustin said. “Are you hurt?”
“Not in the slightest,” Michael said.
The two technicians stood near their machinery, bewildered. Sokolov stared at the marines. “Who are you?” he said to Michael.
“My name is Michael Glover.” Michael gave him a happy smile. “And you are Harold Crane.”
Sokolov’s face turned white.
“Take them,” Michael said, “and let’s go.”
An hour later, they were back on Gehenna. Their off-the-rack bodies had been washed off and returned to storage, except for Curly’s, which had suffered too much damage to be salvaged. According to their agreed upon plan, Curly had broken out of his restraints as soon as he was awake. It lent verisimilitude to the act.
Michael felt good about their little adventure. One hundred marines had stormed the headquarters of Rising Sun Trading and had cut all communications from the building, though not before contact had been made with the local authorities. Police, and even a few military, had clustered outside, but the sight of Gettysburg, Shiloh and Richmond hanging over their heads restrained their actions. In the end, they milled about, stared and did nothing.
All three corvettes sat safely now in Gehenna’s enormous transport bay and all seventy-nine of Rising Sun Trading’s personnel sat in Gehenna’s brig, stewing.
Let them stew, Michael thought. First, he would eat.
They all joined in, laughing and joking, feeling good that something had finally been accomplished. None of them had enjoyed Rostov. The city itself was drab and the climate gloomy. All of them were looking forward to gleaning whatever information here that they could and getting on to the next phase of their mission.
Michael pushed his plate away and took a final sip of his beer. He repressed a burp, wiped his lips with a paper napkin and rose to his feet. “Anybody coming?”
Richard glanced at Matthew, who shrugged. “Oh, yeah,” Marissa said.
All seventy-nine were sitting on cots inside their cells. Gehenna had far more luxurious confinement facilities but these empty cells had been deliberately chosen. The iron bars, the false concrete floors, the thin lumpy mattresses, the total lack of anything to do but sit and brood all tended to focus a prisoner’s mind. The prospect of spending more than an hour or two—possibly much longer—in such circumstances, was not a happy one.
Michael pointed to Yevgeny Smirnov and Harold Crane. “You two,” he said. “Come with us.”
The iron bars opened. Ten marines pointed rifles into the cell. None of them moved. “Now,” Michael said.
Smirnov and Crane walked out. The iron bars closed. The locks clicked shut.
Three minutes later, Smirnov and Crane sat in padded chairs in the center of a small amphitheater. Two marines, rifles slung across their chests, stood next to each chair, but Smirnov and Crane were otherwise unrestrained. The chairs resembled the ones that Michael and his crew had been strapped into, only a few hours before. The similarity was deliberate.
Michael and the others took seats. “Henrik?” Michael said.
Anson leaned forward. “Where did you go after Kodiak?” he said.
Crane sighed. “The Imperium. Where else?”
“Gregory Cabot? Leonard Rivas? The Imperium as well?”
Crane hesitated. “Yes,” he said.
Matthew and Marissa glanced at each other. Marissa grinned. “A lie,” Michael said.
Anson grinned at him. Anson was enjoying this.
“Try again,” Anson said.
A small grimace crossed Crane’s face. He sighed. “I’m afraid that I’ve told you everything I can.”
“You can’t tell us more, or you won’t tell us more?”
“Can’t,” Crane said.
Michael had been afraid of this. “What will happen to you if you tell us more?”
“Nothing much. I’ll freeze up. The words won’t come out of my mouth.”
“It won’t kill you?”
A ghost of a smile crossed Crane’s face. “No.”
“Is that because you’re too valuable to waste?”
Crane smiled wider. He shrugged.
“That’s all right,” Michael said. He glanced at Matthew and Marissa, who both smiled. “We can tell.”
Matthew, Marissa and Michael could detect a lie. It was a bit harder to extract information when the subject kept his mouth shut, but only someone with extensive training could control the physiologic responses to questioning: the heart rate and breathing pattern, the scent of fear or anxiety. Crane had not been given that training.
“So,” Marissa said, an hour later, “here’s what we’ve been able to determine: Crane is strictly middle-management. He’s in it for the money. The Imperium recruited him and if there’s any organization beyond the Imperium, he doesn’t know it. He does suspect it, however.” Marissa shrugged. “There were ships that took off for no known destination. Orders that came from nowhere he could determine. A few vague references to worlds that Crane had never heard of.”
“Who made these references?” Curly asked.
“On more than one occasion, both on Kodiak and Rostov, Crane was asked to host visitors whose business was never mentioned.”
“Where did these visitors come from? And where did they go?”
“He has no idea.”
“What did he think about all this?” Michael said.
“He thought it was none of his business. Mr. Crane’s ambitions extend only so far. He wanted money. Aside from that, his place in the hierarchy was irrelevant to him. He was rich and getting richer. That’s what he cared about.”
“Unfortunate,” Michael said.
Matthew shrugged. “Middle-management. To the organization, Crane’s lack of curiosity was an asset.”
“And Smirnov?”
“Smirnov is a native of Rostov. Crane hired him. Smirnov is a lot less than middle-management. He knows nothing about anything, except that some of the ships they sell were not legitimately purchased.”
“So,” Michael said, “a dead end.”
“Perhaps we’ll have better luck with Duval,” Anson said.
“Perhaps we shall. We’ll soon see.”
Dustin Nye frowned at the image on his screen. Far below, at the edge of the simulated jungle in the ship’s center, a very small young woman dressed in a cadet’s uniform stood at attention. She was holding a rifle at arm’s length. She had been holding the rifle for an hour. Dustin panned in. She was sweating, not a surprise since jungles are most often humid and hot. Her face was pale. She was trembling but her arms remained steady, holding the rifle straight out in front of her.
Dustin stared at this scene for nearly a minute. “Romulus?” he said. “What is going on?”
Rostov was not a member of the Second Empire. The activities of its governmental authorities could not, therefore, be described as treasonous, but neither could they be excused as benign. Crane had told them that the Mayor, the Governor and the planetary Autarch’s Chief of Staff, were all a part of the conspiracy, though none of them realized that a conspiracy existed. No, so far as they were all concerned, they were simply being paid to pay no attention to the activities of Rising Sun Trading
Partners; and since those activities had little to do with the citizens of Rostov, they were happy enough to take the money and keep their mouths shut.
A 5000-meter battleship hovering overhead, however, does tend to change one’s perspective.
“The Empire,” Michael said, “is not pleased.”
One thousand Imperial marines had drifted down onto Moskva, the Autarch’s capital city. They had done nothing aggressive, but their presence, large, anonymous and menacing behind their armor, compelled obedience. When Michael had demanded to speak to the Autarch, he appeared without protest or fanfare.
Michael had no desire to start a war and preferred not to turn the planetary government into enemies of the Second Empire. He treated the Autarch as an equal. The Autarch, thankfully, was not an idiot. He appreciated the fact that these very well armed newcomers could have burned down his palace and his city but had so far chosen not to do so.
The Autarch’s ancestors had also not been dummies. They had built Moskva on the slope of a mountain near the equator, with the lower edges of the city lining an ancient, very deep volcanic lake. Much better climate, and a much better view, than the city of Rostov.
They were sitting at a large conference table in the Autarch’s palace, one entire wall made of glass, looking down upon the lake, Michael and Henrik Anson on one end, the Autarch plus Princess Irina, his eldest daughter and presumptive heir at the other.
The Autarch didn’t look much like a monarch. He was a round, tubby little man, with a round face and a tiny mouth that seemed set in a perpetual frown. Then again, there was little about the current situation to smile at.
The Autarch and the Princess both listened to Michael’s recitation of grievances. After Michael finished, the Princess smiled. “I told you to get rid of that little shit,” she said.
The Autarch shrugged. “I thought him a useful little shit.”
“Hah! More useful to some than to others.”
The Autarch looked at Michael. “Aside from dealing in stolen ships, and of course, kidnapping you and your colleagues, what other crimes have these people committed?”
“We don’t know, but if they’re following the pattern established by the Imperium, you will find that little-by-little, your people are not your own. When it comes time to call for the overthrow of your government, they will be ready and if not for our warning, you would have had no idea.”
“Let’s hope, then, that their plans are not so well established.”
Princess Irina gave a prim little nod.
At that moment, a knock came from the door. “Enter,” the Autarch said.
The door opened. Two Rostov hoplites and two armored Imperial Marines marched into the room, the Autarch’s Chief of Staff between them. The Chief of Staff, named Mikhail Liukin, had a questioning but entirely benign expression on his face.
“Mikhail,” the Autarch said, “please sit down.”
Mikhail Liukin inclined his head toward Michael and Anson, obviously the Autarch’s honored guests, gave a small bow to the Autarch and the Princess, and sat. “How may I serve you, Your Majesty?”
The Princess gave a tiny sniff. The Chief of Staff raised a brow, then focused on the Autarch.
The guy was good, Michael had to give him that. His heart was racing. To Michael’s enhanced senses, he smelled of fear, but none of that could be detected on his face. He sat there, calm, curious but outwardly unafraid, a trusted advisor eager to serve his king.
The Autarch leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips and gave Mikhail Liukin a brooding look. Finally, he sighed. “It has come to our attention, Mikhail, that your loyalties are divided.”
Mikhail Liukin reared back, offended. His heart beat even faster. His forehead prickled with sweat.
Michael chuckled.
Mikhail Liukin’s eyes snapped to Michael’s face, then back to the Autarch’s. “Majesty, this is a lie.”
“No,” Michael said, “it’s not.”
“The penalty for treason,” the Autarch said, “is, as I am certain you know, death. In your case, if you tell us everything, I will allow your family to keep some portion of your property and funds, enough so they won’t have to starve, at any rate. You personally will be exiled to someplace very far away. Your wife and children may go with you, if they so choose. I have selected the island of Taroa. Have you heard of Taroa, Mikhail?
Mikhail Liukin stared at him.
“Nothing to say?” The Autarch shrugged. “Taroa is a sleepy little place but the climate is pleasant. A bit off the beaten path; not a lot to do there except laze on the beach, swim in the sea, try your hand at fishing and get drunk.” The Autarch smiled. “And perhaps work on your memoirs, but then, you have done quite enough already. You will not otherwise be confined. You will report in to the local authorities every month. Your activities, whatever they may be, will be scrutinized at some random intervals by the Secret Service.” The Autarch gave his former Chief of Staff a disapproving look. “A somewhat boring but not entirely unpleasant life.
“This is if you cooperate. If you don’t cooperate, you will be killed.” The corner of the Autarch’s mouth twitched upward. “Slowly.”
Mikhail Liukin drew a deep breath. He seemed to slump in his seat. “It seems that I have no choice,” he said.
“No, Mikhail,” the Autarch said, “you don’t.”
Michael was not a voyeur. He valued his own privacy and he respected that of others. Romulus, however, and through Romulus, the ship’s brain, could go anywhere and watch anything. The brain was instructed to inform Michael of any unusual event that might threaten the stability or morale of the vessel. In this case, Romulus had acted on Dustin Nye’s request and transmitted the information to the ship’s commanders.
Michael strongly disapproved of mistreating the men and women under his command, but an officer is allowed a certain amount of discretion when disciplining her own troops.
“Cadets,” he muttered.
“Her name is Marion Jones,” Romulus said. “Ensign LeClair is displeased with her performance. She has ordered Cadet Jones to stand at the edge of the jungle for three hours, while maintaining her current posture.”
“And this is supposed to accomplish what, exactly?”
“The stated intent is to make Cadet Jones stronger,” Romulus said. “Ensign LeClair has already assigned Cadet Jones several similar exercises, intended to increase both strength and endurance. None of these exercises are among those approved by the corps for such purposes.”
It probably would make her stronger, if she didn’t suffer heat stroke first. “Keep an eye on her,” Michael said. “Don’t let this get out of hand.” He thought for a moment. “And make certain that Captain Thorenson is apprised of the situation.”
“I have already done so,” Romulus said.
They stayed for another week, just in case Harold Crane or some other, hidden person in his organization attempted to cause trouble. Gehenna remained visible in the skies, her constant presence a deadly reminder to anyone who might be tempted to rebel.
Mikhail Liukin proved to be no more useful to Michael Glover and his mission than Harold Crane. He knew some codes by which he could be contacted and send messages, codes which proved to be no longer active. His role had been simple. He had directed the Federal Police to ignore seven specific instances of money laundering and three of outright embezzlement. He had made vid calls promoting the interests of Rising Sun Trading and two smaller corporations that turned out to be fronts for Rising Sun. He had encouraged the granting of licenses for three casinos, placed within three luxury resorts, the ownership of which could not be determined.
The Autarch and Princess Irina were pleased, even more pleased when it became clear that the Mayor of Rostov City and the Governor of Rostov Province were merely venal and corrupt, and not engaged in seditious activities against the Crown. The Mayor and the Governor were arrested. The Autarch assured Michael that they would be tried, found guilty and sentenced to a long period
of incarceration. A scandal, but a routine one.
It was not many years, Michael reflected, since the incident on Kodiak and fewer since the fall of the Imperium. Whatever hazy entity was behind the activities on Rostov had apparently not had time to burrow very far into the fabric of the government.
“I want to thank you,” the Autarch said. He was hosting a farewell party for Michael and his principal crew, who would be leaving in the morning.
Michael nodded. “Happy to help,” he said.
The Autarch, who Michael had come to like, smiled. His round little face was quite pleasant when he smiled. His wife, the Domina, looked nothing like him, being five centimeters taller than her husband and as skinny as a rail. They seemed devoted to each other, however. Princess Irina and her two younger sisters obviously took after their mother.
“It’s too bad they didn’t know more,” the Autarch said. “About your little problem, I mean.”
Michael sighed. “These people have been doing whatever it is that they’re doing for a very long time. They’re good at it.”
The Autarch nodded. “Rostov is hardly the center of interstellar civilization. If they can do it here, they can do it anywhere, and they probably are.”
“That is our principal concern.”
“Then I wish you good luck.” The Autarch gave him a tired smile. “The fate of the Universe may depend upon it.”
Michael winced. “Thank you, your Majesty. We shall do our best.”
Chapter 9
You can pack a lot of terrain into a 5000-meter long ship, particularly when holograms can be made almost indistinguishable from the real thing. Dustin Nye was sitting at his control board, observing the action in the arena down below, when Michael opened the door, padded up behind him and took a seat. Dustin glanced at him from the corner of his eye but kept his attention on what was happening in the enormous chamber.
Dustin was a bit above average size for an Illyrian, which made him about Michael’s height and very large indeed for almost anybody else. He had been a sergeant in the service of Guild Master Douglas Oliver, Matthew and Marissa’s father, now Secretary General of the United Nations of Illyria. Douglas Oliver had offered Michael twenty of his best men and women, plus his son, his daughter and Dustin Nye. Illyrians had always been the best soldiers in the galaxy, though that fact had been forgotten in the past two thousand years. Michael had been happy to accept the offer.
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