I cannot see.
My first reaction to this is not worry, it is stunned amazement. I am still alive. I did not expect to be. The Granger rebels who neatly inserted the bomb into my own maintenance depot doubtless did not expect me to survive, either. For long, confused minutes, I cannot hear anything at all. Sensor arrays and processors have blown system-wide. I can feel distant impacts against my warhull, in a pattern suggesting the random fall of debris.
All visual-light sensors are gone. The only intact imaging technology at my disposal is the thermal visioning system. I can see heat signatures. That is all.
As I gradually orient myself, coming further out of emergency survival center shock, I realize that I am lying on my side. My port side, to be exact, already hard hit by battle damage. I detect ranks of twisted infinite repeaters, crushed by my own weight landing on them. Bombardment rockets and hyper-v missiles have ruptured, spilling their contents onto the ground.
My thoughts remain sluggish for several minutes, while diagnostics run frantic double-checks on damaged circuitry, blown data-storage banks, fused router connections. Ninety-seven percent of the internal damage affects my oldest circuitry, much of it cobbled together and patched by a century's worth of field technicians, using whatever substandard parts were available or could be made to serve the purpose. Of that ninety-seven percent, fully half the damage has occurred in connections and installations put in place by Phil Fabrizio, who has been forced to use seriously under-spec materials for years.
Unable to see, unable to move, I share momentary sympathy with a legless beetle flipped onto its back. I transmit a call for help.
Sar Gremian answers that call with a wrathful curse. "What the mother-pissing hell was that explosion? Did you fire those God-cursed Hellbores?"
"No." I have difficulty producing speech, as my overloaded circuitry has slowed down my processing capabilities. "A Granger bomb exploded inside my depot. They packed a ten-meter cargo truck with octocellulose. I am critically injured. I have been knocked onto my side. I cannot see anything except thermal images. My makeshift depot no longer exists."
Sar Gremian swears nonstop for seven point eight seconds. Then says, "We'll get a team out there."
I wait for a seeming eternity. Ten minutes. Seventeen. Thirty. How long does it take to scramble an emergency response team? I finally detect the low-grade tremors that herald the arrival of several motorized vehicles, large ones, based on the strength and pattern of the tremors. One of those vehicles has a concussion footprint that sounds like a tracked machine, rather than something on wheels. I revise that assessment to several tracked vehicles, as the vibration splits apart into three separate footprints, one moving toward my stern, one toward my prow, and one that assumes a place midway between them.
Then Sar Gremian speaks via his wrist-comm. Judging by the sound of the transmission and the background noise of multiple heavy engines, the president's senior adviser has come to supervise the rescue operation in person. "Okay, Bolo, we've got a team of heavy-lift cranes in place. We're going to tip you back up, onto your treads."
"It is unlikely that you have cables or engines strong enough for that."
"Shut up, machine! You've caused enough trouble today, as it is."
This is inherently unfair, but Sar Gremian has never shown any concern for fair play. I wait as construction engineering crews hook cables to my warhull. The vibrations from all three cranes increase in strength and begin to move away from me, slowly. The cables grow taut. Forward progress stalls, leaving all three machines straining, but motionless. From the sounds I pick up, the drivers are redlining their engines. There is a sudden brutal snap. The cable hooked to my prow slashes loose, whipping audibly through the air. I hear screams and curses, a weird metallic buzz, and the screech of torn metal.
Then Sar Gremian shouts, "Back up! Now, goddammit! Take the tension off those cables!" As the two remaining cables go slack, Sar Gremian mutters, "Jeezus Crap, that was close." I surmise that the broken cable has sliced through something a very short distance away from the president's chief advisor. "All right," he says, voice grim, "do you have any bright ideas about how to turn you over?"
"You will require a heavy-lift transport similar to those used by the Brigade in combat drops from orbit. The Concordiat cannot divert such equipment away from the current war zone. The laboratories on Vishnu may be able to provide you with a lifter strong enough to roll me back onto my treads."
"Oh, just wonderful."
"I would suggest," I add, "that repairs to my treads commence before then, as it will be easier to replace tracks when I am not sitting on them. I am unable to verify with visual confirmation, but I find it unlikely that any of the spares in my temporary depot survived the explosion."
"I'll say it didn't," Sar Gremian snarls. "And you look like one seriously screwed up piece of shit. Can the rest of you be fixed?"
"I am running diagnostics. I have sustained serious damage. Eighty-two percent of that damage would be repairable, if I had a properly trained technician and sufficient spare parts. The remaining eighteen percent of the damage would require an overhaul at a Brigade depot such as Sector Command's main repair yards. Brigade resources are not available. You will therefore need to purchase parts, including special-order items that will require customized tool and die manufacturing. You will also need the services of a team of technicians from Vishnu. I estimate that restoration to even a minimal level of functionality will require an investment in excess of ten billion—"
"Ten billion?" Sar Gremian's voice hits an unlikely and harsh soprano. "Mother of—" He breaks off, breathing heavily. "Goddammit, do you have any idea what Vittori Santorini will say when he hears that? You have been one nonstop bitch of an expensive problem! You can't stop one lousy insurrection led by a handful of terrorists. Every time you're sent out on a job, you manage to let some asshole throw a bomb at you. You're supposed to be a high-tech war wizard, rolling-death incarnate, but you can't even detect an ordinary terrorist with a coat full of explosives! You let these bastards drive a truckload of explosives through your front door and now you think we're just going to cough up ten billion—"
My temper snaps, as suddenly and brutally as the cable at my prow. "I have endured six years of constant attrition with no fiscal allocations from this government to correct any of the damage. Seventy percent of my sensor arrays were cobbled together from cheap, stolen parts spliced improperly into my circuitry with patches attempting to mate incompatible systems. The technician assigned to me was incapable, incompetent, and inappropriately trained. It took Phil Fabrizio four years of intensive study just to reach a level of competence expected of a first-year apprentice technician in the Brigade. He is now unavailable. The team you dispatched to replace him spent the last moments of their lives trying to steal what little remained in the way of spare parts.
"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.
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 request 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."
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.
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. Yalena'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.