by David Weber
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, gingerly taking the chip. Was this what she thought it was? “Thank you, too, for everything you did for him over the past…how many years have you been with him?”
Geary gave a little sniff. “Twenty-three, Your Majesty.”
Twenty-three years. Exactly half of Elizabeth’s life. And she hadn’t even known that about Burgundy and his people. “You should probably go home and rest,” she told Geary. “If anyone needs you, I’m sure they’ll know where to find you.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Geary said with another sniff. “If it’s all right, I’d rather stay. There’s…I need to start organizing his things. His family…and someone else will be moving in here soon.”
Someone else will be moving in here. “Of course,” Elizabeth said between suddenly stiff lips. That aspect hadn’t even occurred to her.
And why would it? She’d never had to worry about the makeup of Parliament or the Cabinet. Even in the months since she’d ascended the Throne her only real decision had been to reappoint everyone in the Cabinet who’d been there under her brother.
Now, suddenly, the position of Prime Minister had to be filled.
And the Queen was the one who had to choose a candidate to offer to the House of Lords.
Her first, reflexive thought was that she needed to talk to Burgundy. Her second, gut-wrenching thought was the fact that she would never talk to him again.
And there was no one else in the cabinet, or in politics in general, who she could trust to guide her through this.
In fact, there was only one person on Manticore, period, who she could trust.
She waited until she was back in her aircar heading back to the Palace. Then, her heart pounding, she keyed her uni-link.
Her father answered on the first ping. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice sounding even more raspy than usual. “How are you holding up?”
“Not too well,” Elizabeth admitted. “I assume you’ve heard the news?”
“About Davis?” There was a barely audible sigh. “Yes. I gather you want to talk?”
“Very much,” Elizabeth said. “Are you available?”
“Always,” Michael assured her. “I’ll be waiting in the Sanctum when you get back.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “And also…I’m sorry if this isn’t very regal. But right now, I really need a hug from my father.”
“That’s good,” Michael said gently. “Because I could really use a hug from my daughter, too. I’ll see you soon.”
* * *
The man Gensonne had chosen to be the public face of the Volsung Mercenaries was, in Llyn’s opinion, something of a mixed bag.
On the one hand, he was big, bluff, and bearded, a look that put him midway between merc and pirate. Given that the Volsungs’ work similarly straddled that line, it gave prospective customers a good idea of what to expect.
On the other hand, a public liaison ought to at least make a pretense of being helpful. And Lieutenant Commander Syncho wasn’t even trying.
“No,” he said, shaking his head even more firmly than he had the first two times he’d delivered himself of that same negative. “I have no idea where Admiral Gensonne might be. Probably out on a job somewhere.”
Which was compete nonsense, Llyn knew. Gensonne wasn’t off on any money-making venture. He was either tucked away in his secret shipyard, licking his wounds and trying to put the pieces of his fleet back together, or he was sitting there glowering, having been run out of the Manticore system without firing a single shot.
Or was on his way back from Posnan, having failed in his effort to catch Llyn’s ship there.
“Can you at least give me a hint?” he persisted.
“How many times do I have to say it?” Syncho demanded. “I’m not telling you anything. And if you ask me, friend, you’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here after what happened at Manticore.”
“Do I, now,” Llyn said. Unfortunately, that answer didn’t really eliminate any of the choices.
The polite approach had gotten him nowhere. Time to switch tactics.
His backup was out in the anteroom, and he could theoretically call them in at any time to help tighten the screws on Syncho. But Syncho’s own backup was out there, too, glowering suspiciously at the visitors, and taking them out would make enough noise that even Syncho would figure out what was going on.
So fine. Llyn would just have to do this himself.
“Fine—let’s talk nerve,” he said. “I’m not asking anymore, I’m demanding. Tell me where he is.”
Syncho’s face darkened. “Or what?” he growled.
“Or I stay right here.” Llyn reached across the narrow desk with his left hand and slapped his fingertips on the top of Syncho’s computer display. “Right here.” He tapped the display again, harder this time. “Until you reach into this little magic box—” tap-tap “—and tell me—” tap-tap-tap “—where the hell Gensonne is.”
“Stop that,” Syncho snapped, reaching up to slap away Llyn’s fingers.
Llyn twitched his hand back, just far enough to avoid Syncho’s. Syncho withdrew his hand, and Llyn again reversed direction, slapping his left fingertips again on the top of the display.
“You don’t like this?” he asked, tapping the display again.
“Damn you—stop it!” Leaning forward, Syncho darted out his hand, this time grabbing for Llyn’s hand instead of just trying to slap it away. Again, Llyn twitched his hand back just out of Synch’s reach.
And then, even as Syncho stretched further forward, trying to close the gap, Llyn snapped out his right hand and caught Syncho’s wrist. Throwing on a quick finger-lock with his left hand, he yanked the trapped arm toward him.
Syncho was caught completely by surprise. His first reflexive move was to try to pull back; but he was seated, and Llyn was standing, and Llyn had a two-handed grip and far better leverage. Llyn continued to pull, stretching the arm and bowing Syncho over at the waist until Syncho’s elbow was directly over the top of the monitor.
And even as Syncho slammed his left hand down on the tabletop in an attempt to regain his balance and resist Llyn’s pull, Llyn rotated the merc’s arm over and set his elbow down on the top of the monitor. Leaning forward, he shifted from a backwards pull to a downward push.
Syncho cursed again. But this time the fury had an edge of fear to it. With the full weight of the merc’s body now concentrated on his elbow, all Llyn had to do was add a few kilos of his own weight to his end of the lever and the joint would snap like a dry stick. Desperately, Syncho scrambled to his feet, kicking back his chair in his haste, trying to relieve the pressure and delay his imminent crippling.
And as his belt and the attached holster cleared the edge of the desk, Llyn released his left-handed finger lock, reached over the desk, and deftly plucked Syncho’s handgun from the holster. He shoved backward with his right hand, releasing Syncho’s wrist, and took a quick step backward.
And with that, he had Syncho exactly where he wanted him.
“Not a word,” Llyn said quietly. He nodded toward the door behind him. “Not unless you want your men out there to die.”
For a long moment he thought Syncho was going to try it anyway, and to hell with the consequences. But the man wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He stood where he was, his hands chest-high, his open palms toward Llyn, his lips pressed together into a thin line.
“Good,” Llyn said. “Back up a bit more, if you would. Let’s say all the way to the wall.”
Silently, still keeping his hands visible, Syncho complied. “So what now?” he asked quietly. “You shoot my knees and elbows and crotch until I talk?”
“Oh, please,” Llyn protested. “We of the Solarian League like to think we’re more civilized than that. On the floor, facing the wall with your hands behind your head, fingers laced. I’m sure you know the routine.”
He waited until Syncho had complied. “As I said, I’m sure it’s all in the mag
ic box here,” he continued, circling to the other side of the desk. He reached for the keyboard with his free hand—
And paused, his lips puckering. The computer, which had been on earlier, was now off. “Deadman switch?” he asked.
“Foot pedal,” Syncho said. “Activated when someone we don’t know comes in for a chat. Or someone we don’t trust.”
“I’m guessing that’s me,” Llyn said, peering under the desk. There was indeed a small foot switch down there. Clever. “Like I said, magic box,” he said. Keeping one eye on Syncho, he started unplugging the computer. “I figure everything I need is in here.”
“You’ll never get it out.”
“I think I will,” Llyn assured him. “I know a magician who loves cracking magic boxes. Be sure to say hello to Admiral Gensonne the next time you see him. Or not—I’ll be there in person soon enough.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Syncho growled. “He’ll be waiting.”
“You misunderstand,” Llyn protested. “He’s going to be happy to see me.”
“You think that, huh?”
“I know it,” Llyn assured him. He pulled out the sensor in his pocket, which he’d turned on just before entering, and checked the analysis readout. Smiling in satisfaction, he put it back in his pocket and swapped it out for a book reader he’d bought on his way over to the Volsung office. “Now, I’m leaving you a little deadman device of my own,” he said, placing the reader on the edge of the desk closest to Syncho. “It’s a neuro toxin dispenser. In one hour the internal fuse oxidizes and the thing becomes harmless. Until then, move in this direction and you won’t have to worry about what you’re going to tell Gensonne about this little incident. Under the circumstances, I suggest you have yourself a nice nap.”
He pulled out his uni-link, tapped the signal key, and waited the twenty seconds it took for the noise coming from the anteroom to fade back to silence. Then, keeping his gun pointed at Syncho, he backed out of the office.
The six Volsungs who’d been playing guard were scattered around the room, none of them seriously marked, all of them still breathing. That was good, and per Llyn’s specific orders to his three-man team. Gensonne wouldn’t take kindly to having more of his people killed, after all, especially not by Llyn himself.
A moment later he and the team were back on the street. Fifty-five minutes later, without further incident or any indications of pursuit, they were back aboard Pacemaker.
* * *
Captain Katura wasn’t impressed.
“You realize they’re going to have at least three layers of encryption on this thing,” he pointed out as Llyn set up the Volsung computer in Pacemaker’s wardroom. “Plus passwords, biometrics, and possibly a rolling code.”
“There’s no rolling code,” Llyn said. “Those need to run a periodic synch signal, and I checked for that before I left the office. As for passwords and biometrics, they can be hacked, altered, or worked around.”
“There’s still the multiple encryptions.”
“There’s a lady aboard named Hester Fife,” Llyn said “You may not have seen much of her—she tends to be something of a recluse. But she’s a genius with such things. I’ll turn her loose on the computer while we wait for Syncho or one of his comrades to go tearing off to warn Gensonne that I’m on his tail.”
“And when he does, Shrike or Banshee will track him?”
“Exactly,” Llyn said. “Naturally, Syncho will see that he’s being followed and either take a completely roundabout route or else just head off in the opposite direction. But that’s all right, because both captains have been instructed to break off pursuit after two days and return here.”
“All right,” Katura said slowly. “But if you’re not expecting Syncho to lead you to Gensonne, and you’re not even going to stick with him long enough to know for sure…?”
“I’m buying time.” Llyn tapped the computer. “Time for Hester to crack this thing. If we don’t follow Syncho, he’ll go straight to Gensonne and give him his account of what just happened. I’d rather my version be the one Gensonne hears first.”
“So we make him either evade or try to lure our ship away,” Katura said, nodding. “And even when it breaks off, he won’t be absolutely sure he hasn’t just been handed off to someone else.”
“Exactly,” Llyn said. “Especially since he’ll also wonder if we have some exotic Solarian tech that will let us follow him without being seen. I figure four days for Hester to get in, and we’ll be ready to go.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” Katura said, still clearly not convinced.
“I am.” Llyn shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work, we’ll just come back and go with Syncho’s suggested approach.”
“Which was?”
“I believe it started off with a bullet to the knee.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Recently, Winterfall had noticed, it didn’t seem to take much to set Breakwater off. Today, unfortunately, was no exception.
Especially since the announcement from the Palace was probably not what he’d expected.
“Harwich,” Breakwater snarled, pacing back and forth across his office like a Kodiak Max on stimulants. “Of all people. The entire House of Lords to choose from, and she pushes Harwich to be PM?”
“He seems a reasonable choice to me,” Winterfall said cautiously. Probably not what Breakwater had expected. Definitely not what he’d wanted. “He did vote with us in the last three MPARS funding debates.”
Breakwater’s eyes might have flashed at Winterfall’s use of the word us. “That’s not the point,” the Chancellor growled. “Of course he voted with us—he votes for everything that builds Manticore’s industrial base. The point is that he’s stolid, unimaginative, and completely unequipped to maintain the political balance that’s a big part of the Prime Minister’s job. And how in the world did he manage to put together a majority?”
“Maybe political balance isn’t what the Queen is looking for,” Winterfall suggested. “And maybe he has a majority because she made it clear she favored him.”
This time, Breakwater’s eyes definitely flashed. “Of course that’s what happened,” he said. “Elizabeth is making her move. This is her first salvo in an all-out attack on us.”
And there it was: the landing pad where Breakwater’s strange flights of fancy always seemed to end up these days. The Chancellor was convinced that the Queen was out to get him—him personally—and no amount of evidence or logic to the contrary seemed to matter.
“You could fight it,” Winterfall pointed out. “If you call in enough favors, you might be able to pull back enough of his majority to push him out again.”
“I’m tempted,” Breakwater rumbled. “Don’t think I’m not. But better to save our ammunition for later.” He snorted. “In fact, that may be exactly what she’s hoping we’ll do. Flush out all our supporters so that she knows who to target before she starts trotting out her pet projects for Harwich to push through.”
“Or maybe she has something else in mind,” Winterfall suggested. “Maybe she’s not so much moving Harwich into the PM position as she is moving him out of the Minister of Industry slot.”
“If she thinks—” Breakwater broke off, his forehead furrowing. “That’s a very interesting thought, Gavin,” he said in a more subdued tone. “Very interesting. Who do you think she might want to put in his place?”
“Depends on her ultimate goal, I suppose,” Winterfall said. At least he’d distracted Breakwater from his paranoid rant. “If she’s focusing on building the Merchant Marine, she might put Countess Acton in. I know she’s been working with Heinrich Hauptman to develop contacts and supply sources in Silesia, Haven, and the League. Not counting places like Casca and—”
“No,” Breakwater interrupted, his pacing coming to an abrupt halt. “Not the Merchant Marine. I’ll be damned—she’s going for Edward’s crazy scheme.”
“King Edward?”
“He was only Crown Prince then, but tha
t’s him,” Breakwater said. “He had this insane idea of turning Manticore into the major shipbuilder in the region. Complete ships, all the way up to building our own impeller rings.”
“I thought that was extremely hard to do.”
“Extremely hard, and extremely expensive, both in dollars and man-hours,” Breakwater said. “It’ll suck up resources and people like a black hole.”
“Is there really enough demand out here for ships that we would ever turn a profit?”
“I seriously doubt it,” Breakwater said, starting up his pacing again. “Let me think—let me think. He was going to send—right; he was going to send Casey around to all our neighbors as an example of what we could do.”
“But Casey’s impellers and fusion plant are from—”
“Yes, yes, of course they are,” Breakwater cut him off again. “That wasn’t the point.” He inhaled sharply. “Oh, hell. Casey.” He waggled a finger at Winterfall. “Look her up—right now. Is she still undergoing repairs?”
“Let me check, My Lord.” Winterfall sat down at Breakwater’s desk and keyed the computer. A quick search—“Yes, she is,” he confirmed. “The work’s projected to be finished in about a month.”
“What’s her schedule after that’s done? Is anything posted?”
“Nothing public,” Winterfall said, skimming down the page. “Let me dig a little deeper.”
“Try the private records.”
“I am, My Lord.” Winterfall called up the special files, wincing a little. Those records were highly restricted, for Cabinet ministers’ eyes only, and Winterfall wasn’t even supposed to see them, let alone be able to access them. Breakwater had given him the access codes months ago for another project, and had never bothered to change them. Probably because he was relying less and less on his own staff for this kind of work and more and more on Winterfall.