by David Weber
“You’re right,” she said. “Father Church teaches that the Tester opens his arms to all of us. That death is just another doorway and we should celebrate the lives of those who go on ahead of us, not mourn for them. But not mourning for them doesn’t mean we can’t grieve for ourselves in their absence. For our loss, whatever their gain might be. But it’s hard, you know. There’s no point in any of us pretending the Yawata Strike didn’t happen. I doubt there’s a single person in the entire Manticore System who didn’t lose someone. I know I certainly did, and I know there were people—like Duchess Harrington—who lost almost their entire families. But I’m a naval officer, the head of Tristram’s Tac Department. It was my job to be there for other people, not to break down over my own sense of loss.”
“From what I’ve seen of you, you would’ve been there anyway, Abigail, whether it was ‘your job’ or not. It’s who you are—what you are. What you do.” He smiled almost wistfully at her. “For that matter, I watched you doing it on the trip here from Seraphim, and not just by being there for others. There was part of you that really and truly wanted to shoot Firebrand—Harahap, I mean—right where he sat. I could tell there was. You never showed it. Not overtly. You never even said a harsh word to him, because it was your job not to, but I knew. I didn’t realize why you felt that way—not at first, that was. Not until Bosun Musgrave told me about Monica and New Tuscany. About everything he did to set that in motion.” He shook his head. “God, you must hate him.”
“Not really.” His surprise showed, and she smiled back at him. “No, really, I don’t. I won’t go so far as to say he’s one of my favorite people in the universe, but I don’t hate him. And I really do realize how valuable he could be to the Alliance. Besides, what good would it do me—or anyone else—to hate him? It wouldn’t undo anything he’s done, and everything that happened to us in Monica, or in Talbott, combined isn’t a drop in the bucket beside what happened in the Yawata Strike. For that matter, when you come down to it, not everything he’s done ended up all that badly, now did it?”
“No, I guess it didn’t,” he acknowledged with a chuckle. “If McCready had gotten herself assassinated the same way and our good friend ‘Firebrand’ hadn’t gotten those weapons to us—or, for that matter, hadn’t dug in when the fighting actually started—I’d probably be dead, too. I don’t think I’d like that very much.”
“I wouldn’t like that, either,” she said softly. His eyes widened, and her smile grew broader and somehow gentler. “I wouldn’t like that at all.”
Their gazes held for a moment, and then she looked deliberately back down at the menu display.
“Everything they have here is really, really good.” Her tone was much lighter than it had been, almost amused. “I’d never eaten seafood before I arrived here in Manticore, so I think I’ll start with the lobster bisque. I think you’d probably like it, too, and maybe the stuffed clams for an appetizer?” She raised her eyes to meet his again. “And if you’ve never tried it, maybe the Chateaubriand as the entrée. Dempsey’s has started using Montana beef. Trust me, it’s good.”
“Oh, I think I can do that,” Indy said. She quirked an eyebrow. “Trust you, I mean.”
“Well,” she said, eyes bright as she reached for the order button, “that’s a good start. Trusting me, I mean.”
City of Landing
Manticore Binary System
Star Empire of Manticore
“So what can you tell us about this—” the orange-haired man consulted his notes “—Collin Detweiler?” He looked up, his peculiar purple eyes with their vertical pupils showing only mild curiosity. “We’re trying to fill in the gaps about the ‘Alignment.’”
Fill in the gaps? Damien Harahap thought sardonically. What you mean is you people don’t have a clue who Detweiler is and little red ants are eating you alive while you try to figure out what the hell the “Alignment” is really up to.
He leaned back in his own chair, pursing his lips with a thoughtful air. He was still far from certain why he hadn’t conveniently dropped dead—conveniently for his most recent employers, that was—although the most likely answer remained the Gamma Center’s destruction. It seemed, assuming there was any truth to the Mesan claims, that he owed Anton Zilwicki and Victor Cachat a vote of thanks.
Actually, he’d like to discuss quite a few things with Zilwicki and Cachat. He admired professionalism, whoever happened to have it, and the two of them had ripped a lot of scabs off of things Isabel Bardasano and Collin Detweiler—among others—had very much wanted to stay hidden. Besides, he’d like to compare notes with them about Green Pines, given his post-“terrorist attack” visit to Mendel. Unfortunately, they weren’t available. For that matter, he hadn’t been able to figure out what their true relationship with their respective star nations’ official intelligence services was. It sounded like Zilwicki was essentially a free agent whose primary loyalty was split between the Kingdom of Torch and the Star Kingdom—now Star Empire—in which he’d been born. And it sounded like Cachat was essentially a loose warhead officially in the employ of the Republic of Haven’s Foreign Intelligence Service…whose directives he followed on the infrequent occasions when they made sense to him.
“I’m afraid I actually only met Detweiler twice, Mister Jubair,” he said after a moment to his current interrogator.
“So you said earlier.” Antoine Jubair tapped the memo pad on the table between them and smiled. When he did, he showed very pointy teeth, the product of the same genetic manipulation which had given his genetic slave grandfather his dark complexion, bright orange—orange, not red or auburn—hair, and catlike pupils. “It would seem both those meetings were rather significant in terms of your…employment, though.”
“That’s a fair assessment.” Harahap nodded and glanced at the treecat stretched comfortably across one end of the table. Aside from the angle of their pupils and the fact that they were green, not purple, its eyes reminded him a great deal of Jubair’s. Not least because of how unwaveringly they were focused upon one Damien Harahap. Unless he was mistaken, there was more—a lot more—intelligence behind them than he’d previously assumed, too.
“There’s not a lot I can tell you about him that’s what I’d call concrete,” he said. “I never saw any organization charts, much less one with his name on it, and once I’d passed muster with him, I never saw him again, either. So please understand that anything I tell you can only be conjectural, based on my one-time impression of him.”
He paused, eyebrows raised, and Jubair nodded.
“Understood,” he said in the tone of one professional speaking to another one.
“With that proviso, then,” Harahap continued, “he’s smart—very smart. He’s also ruthless, and he comes equipped with a lot of focus and, I think, genuine commitment to whatever these people are really after. Physically, the cyber sketch your people produced from my description is pretty accurate, but it doesn’t capture how much…call it command presence he has. Or the fact that he has a command mentality, as well.” Harahap shrugged. “I’d say he’s a man who makes decisions, not one who takes directions.”
Jubair glanced at the treecat, who only yawned daintily, showing teeth that were another point of similarity between them.
“That’s an interesting distinction,” the Manticoran observed after a moment.
“Well, I guess I should admit it’s based at least in part on Chernyshev’s attitude towards him,” Harahap said.
“That would be Rufino Chernyshev? The fellow who wound up with Bardasano’s job?” Jubair asked, and Harahap nodded. He felt a twinge—a tiny one—of regret at having IDed Rufino for the Manties, but the Mesan was a fellow professional. He’d understand. That wouldn’t stop him from shooting Harahap right in the head if the opportunity arose, but he’d understand.
“Yes,” he said. “Neither he nor Bardasano ever used the term ‘Mesan Alignment’ to me or in my presence, but assuming your people are right about its existence�
�and if you are, that might explain some of the things I found puzzling about their strategies—I’m pretty sure Bardasano was in charge of its covert operations. I don’t know anything about their intelligence-gathering activities, except that from the raw take I studied on the systems they assigned to me, they’re tapped into official League sources at very high levels. The intel they provided me was better than the Gendarmerie usually comes up with, and they obviously had sources outside the official ones, as well. How those contacts were established or managed was never part of the intel package, though, so I can’t say if she was involved in that side or if she was only their director of operations. From her attitude, from some of the things she said, I’m inclined to think she had executive responsibility for both sides of their shop—intelligence and covert ops—but there’s no way I could confirm that.
“The important thing, though,” he leaned forward, “is that whatever her role may have been, Detweiler was her boss. So, if you’re right about the existence of the Alignment and it really isn’t the ‘consortium of transstellars’ he and Bardasano tried to sell me, I think he’s very probably the ‘shadow government’ Minister of Intelligence.”
“Interesting possibility,” Jubair said. “I’ll want to come back to that in a bit. But for now, tell me what you can about the shift in Chernyshev’s responsibilities after Green Pines. For example—”
* * *
“I wish I thought we really could turn that man into an asset,” Patricia Givens said almost wistfully.
She sat in a secure conference room between Hamish Alexander-Harrington and his brother William, who happened to be Baron Grantville, not to mention Prime Minister of Manticore. At the moment, all of them were watching another installment of Damien Harahap’s ongoing debrief by Barton Salgado’s Special Intelligence Service. Personally, Givens thought ONI ought to have the lead role, given that it was a naval officer who’d scooped him up in the first place. On the other hand, she had more than enough on her own plate, especially in the wake of Hypatia and the reports beginning to come in from other systems who’d been visited by the Sollies’ goddamned “Buccaneers.”
“He’s a trained, skilled intelligence operative, not a scientist sequestered in a think tank or even doing applied research,” she went on. “That means he’s already given us at least three or four times more on the operational side than Doctor Simões was able to…assuming we can rely on it.”
The dappled treecat on White Haven’s shoulder produced something that sounded remarkably like a human sigh, and the ’cat on the back of Givens’s chair laughed. The admiral looked over her shoulder at her furry bodyguard and frowned, then turned back to the two-leg participants in the conference.
“Despite Samantha’s and Thought Chaser’s reactions,” she said a bit tartly, “I’m not suggesting he’s getting any intentional deception past Pounces on Leaves.” She twitched her head at the treecat participating in the recorded interrogation. “My problem is that I still can’t quite convince myself—not fully—that he isn’t some kind of plant, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“Oh, Pat!” the prime minister sighed. “I swear, you are the most paranoid person I’ve ever met.” He considered a moment. “Well, the most paranoid, otherwise sane person I’ve ever met.”
“Part of my job,” she pointed out. “Besides,” her expression darkened, “don’t forget how long these bastards have played every intelligence agency in the galaxy! They got away with it partly because none of us paranoid but sane people were paranoid enough to believe in tooth fairies, Easter bunnies, honest politicians—no offense, Mister Prime Minister, Sir—or secret societies of genetic supermen hell-bent on galactic domination.” She shook her head. “Honestly, most mornings I wake up and have to convince myself all over again that this ‘Alignment’ really exists!
“But even though a lot of their success to date stems from the fact that the entire concept is so patently absurd no serious analyst ever thought of looking for it, nobody keeps something this broad, this ambitious, hidden for as long as Simões and McBryde’s information suggests these people have been around, without being very, very good. Crazy, megalomaniacal, fanatics too bug-fuck crazy to come in out of the snow, maybe, but good at concealment, misdirection, and misinformation. The fact that I can’t see any way they could’ve deliberately planted him on us doesn’t mean they couldn’t do it. More to the point, it doesn’t mean they didn’t deliberately mislead him as a security measure, just in case he fell into our hands and decided to get talkative.”
“You don’t buy Honor’s theory about that?” White Haven asked mildly.
“I didn’t say that.” Givens shook her head. “Actually, I think she may well be right about why he’s alive. I’m just saying these people believe in defense in depth. Everything we’ve seen tells me the Alignment’s like one of those matryoshka dolls Charlie O’Daley gave Moira last year for her tenth birthday. Every time we take one of them apart, there’s something else hiding inside it. I don’t see any reason to assume they didn’t hide something else inside whatever Harahap knows about.”
“Clearly they did,” White Haven said. “Or tried to, anyway. Nobody ever said anything to him about genetically enhanced conspirators out to overthrow the League. He figured out on his own that they were really after a lot more than they were telling him about, but they were damned careful he didn’t find out what they hadn’t told him. In fact, I think your matryoshka doll’s actually a very good metaphor for their entire approach. That’s why I also think Honor’s right about how useful he can be. He’s at least two or three dolls in from the edge. That gives us a lot better starting point for the next doll. Assuming she’s also right about whether or not we can genuinely turn him.”
“Turn him again, you mean,” Givens’s tone was rather pointed, and she snorted when the earl shrugged. “Man’s probably getting vertigo by now!”
“Maybe. But I come back to Pounces on Leaves. He and Nimitz both agree with Honor’s evaluation of Harahap’s basic personality.”
“I know, but—”
“Pat, the decision’s been made,” Prime Minister Grantville pointed out. She looked at him, and he shrugged. “Her Majesty’s signed off on it, and so has Tom Theisman for Eloise Pritchart and Michael Mayhew for Protector Benjamin,” he reminded her in a reasonable tone. “All of them understand and respect your reservations, but he’s way too potentially valuable for us to just park in a holding cell and trot out for occasional interrogations.”
“That wasn’t precisely all I intended to do with him,” Givens said tartly, but it was her turn to shrug. “On the other hand, you’re right and I know it. I just would really, really like some way to be sure he doesn’t get a better offer from someone else down the road, flip again, and sell us out the same way he’s selling out the Alignment.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s exactly what he’s doing,” White Haven observed, then chuckled. “Mind you, I can see where an…established pattern of behavior on his part might seem like grounds for a certain degree of concern to a professionally paranoid woman such as yourself.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you find that amusing, My Lord,” Vice Admiral Patricia Givens told the civilian head of her service.
“Oh, I don’t find your suspicion or your awareness of the potential risk amusing at all,” White Haven assured her. “What I find amusing is the thought of Mister Harahap’s response to the…prophylactic measure Honor’s suggested to prevent anything like that from happening.”
“‘Prophylactic’?”
“That’s how I think of it, anyway.” He smiled at her, then his expression turned—slightly—more serious. “You’ve met Dame Lisa—Lisa Llorens—haven’t you?”
Givens frowned as she rummaged through her memory. Then she nodded, although, from her expression, she wondered where he could possibly be going.
“I wouldn’t say I really know Dame Lisa,” she said. “I saw her dance before she retired—several times,
really, but to be honest, Simon and Moira both love ballet more than I do. I know she and Honor are close, too, and you’re right; I did meet her a couple of months ago, when Thought Chaser and I were on Sphinx. I’m not really clear on what she could contribute to our little problem here, though.”
Dame Lisa Llorens had risen to the rank of Second Principal Dancer in the Royal Ballet’s Company of Sphinx, a position she’d held for close to twenty-five T-years. That quarter T-century as one of the four best ballet dancers in the entire Star Kingdom—there was no Company of Gryphon, which led to all manner of snarky jokes—had ended with the Yawata Strike, however.
She’d been headed toward retirement well before that, despite the fact that she remained in high demand as a performer and an artist. She and her treecat, Grace, had been deeply involved in Adelina Arif’s quest to teach treecats how to communicate with humans, however, and that had been claiming more and more of her time. She’d made her two careers work—somehow—yet the strain had mounted as her heart pulled her in opposing directions. It was probable she would have followed that heart into fulltime work with Dr. Arif under any circumstances, but the Yawata Strike had tipped the balance. The Sphinx Company had been scheduled to perform in Yawata Crossing. A third of the company had already arrived to begin rehearsals and the shuttle delivering Dame Lisa and the rest of the company had been less than thirty minutes out when the tsunami struck…and killed every member of the company already on the ground.
She and Grace had left the world of dance after the deaths of so many people—human and treecat alike, and not just the members of their company—they’d known so well and loved so much, in order to dedicate themselves fully to the rapidly evolving relationship between the ’cats and their two-leg neighbors.
“Well, Honor’s put quite a bit of thought into your ‘little problem,’ too,” Hamish said now, “and I think she’s come up with a workable solution. She asked Doctor Arif and her team for a nominee, and Dame Lisa and the memory singers came up with one I think will work very well. His name is ‘Clean Killer.’”