In Fire Forged: Worlds of Honor V-ARC (12 page)

“Ah,” Charles murmured. There were long-standing rumors that the Peeps had hired a number of pirate gangs as privateers. “At any rate, it squared off to fight, and the last thing the freighter saw as it made its getaway was the cruiser being pounded to rubble. It was assumed destroyed, the rest of the Manties went on with their lives, and the People’s Navy towed what was left of the cruiser back to a hidden dock somewhere and started taking the thing apart.”

“Yes,” Saint-Just said, his eyes hardening with the memory. “For all the good it did them.”

“Indeed,” Charles said, nodding. “The Manty captain may not have gotten around to giving the destruct order before the command deck was hit, but he would certainly have put out the slag order to destroy anything of real tech value aboard.”

Saint-Just’s lip quirked in another smile. “Your source is very well informed.”

Charles shrugged microscopically. “Some of it’s just simple logic,” he said. “The fact that the PRN isn’t using any of the Manty tech, even the less advanced secret stuff from that early in the war, means nothing was found.”

“Oh, a great deal was found,” Saint-Just corrected, his face darkening. “There were personal service manuals in various lockers and a few hardcopies of routine diagnostics that were still intact. There were also quite a few slagged blocks that used to be secret Manty technology. The Navy’s R and D people promised they would be able to get something out of them.”

“Which will happen any day now, of course,” Charles said, nodding. “Yes, I know the routine. The military never quite gives up, yet never quite delivers on their promises. Meanwhile, as they’ve poked around uselessly, you’ve formulated a far better plan for the ship, one that would bring dramatic results in weeks rather than years.”

Saint-Just’s eyes came back from his contemplation of the People’s Navy and their stubborn uselessness. “You’re indeed well informed, Mr. Navarre,” he said, very quietly. “Would you care to tell me what exactly these plans consist of?”

“On that, I can only speculate,” Charles said, again suppressing a shiver. If Saint-Just ever even suspected there was a leak in his own upper echelon, he would have Charles taken apart, molecule by molecule if necessary, until he had a name. “Since I assume you’ve got the Navy restoring the ship for you—grudgingly, no doubt, since they’d rather use the refitting facilities for their own damaged ships—I further assume it’s for some kind of covert op that you’re hoping will embarrass the Manties. Raiding League freighters, possibly, in the hope of turning more Solly sympathy—and weapons—toward the People’s Republic.”

“Really,” Saint-Just said, again favoring Charles with that tiger smile. “You think I would fight this hard—that I would throw every bit of my own prestige against Naval small-mindedness—just so I could blame Manticore for some shipping harassment? You insult me, Mr. Navarre.”

“My apologies, Citizen Secretary,” Charles said hastily. “As I said, I’m just thinking aloud. The other possibility is that you plan some kind of infiltration into enemy space, either into the Manticore system itself or that of one of their allies.” Had there been a twitch of Saint-Just’s lip when the Manticore system was mentioned? “The former would certainly be the more audacious,” he continued.

“Only with great risk comes great reward,” Saint-Just said. “Now tell me which specific target I have in mind.”

Charles braced himself. His life literally hung on his next words. “To be honest,” he said, “I don’t believe there
are
any genuinely viable targets.”

Saint-Just’s eyes remained steady on him. “Explain.”

“Let’s look at the possibilities,” Charles said, forcing himself not to rush. He had to get the whole analysis out before Saint-Just summarily ordered his head taken off. But at the same time, he had to remain calm and professional about it. “The two obvious choices are the Manties’ big space stations:
Hephaestus
at Manticore, and
Vulcan
at Sphinx. Taking out either of those would effectively cripple the Manties’ spaceborne industry, which would have huge ramifications for both their civilian and military arenas.”

“Yet you just said they weren’t worthwhile targets.”

“Oh, they’re worthwhile enough,” Charles said. “They’re just not viable. No matter what kind of false transponder and ID codes you’re able to put aboard the
Ellipsis,
the chance that the Manties will let the ship get within range are slim to none. Even if you can get it close enough to launch missiles, the fixed defenses around either station would almost certainly take them out before they could do any damage.”

“Sphinx’s orbital radius is slightly over twenty-one light-minutes from the primary, with a system hyper limit of only twenty-two light-minutes,” Saint-Just said, watching Charles closely. “That means the
Ellipsis
could come out less than a light-minute from Sphinx and
Vulcan.
That would put it well within missile range.”

“I believe that the actual number is even better, only twenty-seven light-seconds,” Charles said. “But what most people don’t know—though I’m sure you do—is that any ship that comes out of hyper less than three light-minutes from Sphinx is automatically attacked. If the
Ellipsis
tried coming in that close to the station, it wouldn’t even get a chance to use whatever ID you’d set it up with.”

“So my admirals have informed me,” Saint-Just said. His face was still unreadable, but Charles thought he could detect a slight softening of the Peep’s expression. Maybe he’d already heard these numbers and arguments from his own people, which would only help Charles’s own credibility. “But I never expected it to be anything but a suicide mission.”

“I understand,” Charles said. “But even a suicide mission has to have
some
reasonable chance of success. Coming out three light-minutes from
Vulcan
would put
Ellipsis
just barely into missile range, but there isn’t a reasonable chance that it could hit the station from that distance before the Manties’ defenses came into play.”

“Then we simply ram the station,” Saint-Just said. “Accelerate as much as possible, for as long as possible, and as the Manties start shooting back rotate to present its wedge to the defenders.”

“At which point it would become a ballistic projectile, not accelerating and with a completely predictable trajectory,” Charles said. “It would be child’s play for the Manties to program a missile to come in sideways and either down
Ellipsis
’s throat or up its kilt.”

“And worse…?”

Charles frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve done an excellent job of mimicking my military advisors,” Saint-Just said calmly. “Now tell me: what is the even more disastrous risk I would be taking by sending the
Ellipsis
to ram
Vulcan
?”

Charles felt a surge of panic, ruthlessly forced it down. This was obviously some sort of test, with Saint-Just trying to see just how bright or how informed he was.

Only Charles didn’t have a clue as to where the Citizen Secretary was nudging him. What could be worse than a failed mission and wasted lives?

“You disappoint me,” Saint-Just said into the lengthening silence. “And you a Solly, yet.”

And finally, Charles got it. “You’re talking about the Eridani Edict,” he said, wincing with the thought. “If the
Ellipsis
should miss the station and hit Sphinx…”

“The entire Solarian League Navy would arrive on Haven’s doorstep,” Saint-Just said, his tone icy. “Never mind the fact that the offender would demonstrably have been a rogue Manty ship, and that the subsequent destruction would have been merely a terrible accident.”

Charles stared at the impassive face across the desk. Was that, in fact, Saint-Just’s actual plan? To pretend the
Ellipsis
was attacking
Vulcan,
hoping it would “accidentally” destroy Sphinx instead? “It wouldn’t matter,” he said between suddenly frozen lips. “The League wouldn’t believe either. They’d come to Haven, all right, and they’d dismantle your military and government right down to bedrock.”

“I suppose.” Saint-Just shrugged. “Pity.”

“Indeed,” Charles said, struck by the grotesque irony of the word. Pity was an emotion Saint-Just himself probably hadn’t felt in decades. “But that is unfortunately the reality we face.”

Saint-Just smiled faintly. “So it’s
we,
now, is it?”

Charles winced. “Forgive the impertinence, Citizen Secretary,” he said, ducking his head humbly. “Part of a salesman’s job is to identify with his client, all the better to find a mutually satisfactory solution to the client’s needs.”

“And what are my needs, Citizen?” Saint-Just asked. “Or perhaps we should simply skip to the mutually satisfactory solution you mentioned.”

“What you need is to get the Manties off your back,” Charles said, his heartbeat starting to pick up again. “An attack on their manufacturing infrastructure would be one way to do that, except that it’s obviously something they expect and are therefore prepared for. But there’s a better way, one that doesn’t rely on Manty carelessness or gullibility.”

He cocked his head. “We precipitate a war between the Star Kingdom and the Andermani Empire.”

“Interesting,” Saint-Just said, his eyes going a little flatter. “Also ironic, given that was exactly what we were trying to do when you came to the PRN with your magic Crippler weapon.”

“Not precisely,” Charles said, wishing the other would stop bringing that up. His role in that debacle had almost certainly earned him a death-by-torture sentence, which was why he’d waited all this time before venturing back into Peep space in the first place.

On the other hand, the existence of that death sentence was probably precisely why Saint-Just kept bringing it up. Bargaining, after all, was a game for two. “What you were trying back then was to irritate the Manties by using a captured Andermani ship to harass their shipping,” he continued. “What I’m proposing would leave the Manties completely out of the loop by persuading the Andermani to declare war on
them.
”

“Really,” Saint-Just said. His voice was still flat, but Charles could see the first glimmerings of real interest behind those hardened eyes. “The Emperor seems very much disposed toward Manticore.”

“I think I can change his mind,” Charles said. “Are you interested?”

Saint-Just studied him a moment. Then, giving Charles a slight smile, he settled back into his chair. “Tell me more,” he invited.

Charles had gone over the plan twice, and was trying to figure out a third way to come at it, when Saint-Just abruptly lifted his hand. “Enough,” he said briskly. “Colonel?”

Charles frowned; but before he could say anything he felt the tingle of a hypospray in the back of his neck. He twisted his head around, his vision suddenly going blurry.

He got just a glimpse of the stern-faced interrogator before the darkness took him.

*
   
*
   
*

He came to in a hospital bed. The interrogator was sitting at his side, contemplating him as someone might gaze at a particularly repulsive insect just before bringing a large rock down on top of it.

Only instead of the gray civilian suit he’d been wearing in the interrogation cell, he was now resplendent in a full State Security colonel’s uniform. Above the pocket a small name plate read
Mercier.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” Charles managed through a desert-dry throat.

“Let me make two things clear,” Mercier said, ignoring Charles’s attempt at pleasantries. “You’re alive for one reason and one reason only: Citizen Secretary Saint-Just thinks you can be of use to us. The assessment as to whether or not you’re living up to that potential is mine alone.” His eyes flashed. “And just for the record, I was a friend of Captain Vaccares. You
do
remember Captain Vaccares, I trust?”

Charles’s dry throat went a little drier. Vaccares had been the captain of one of the ill-fated Peep ships from the whole Crippler scam. “I remember him very well,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I never intended for any of the men and women involved to die.”

“You would certainly recognize the paving material of the road you’re traveling,” Mercier said acidly. He waved a hand around him. “Would you like to take a guess as to why you’re here?”

Charles looked at the IV stands and gleaming medical monitors. “I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“Interesting choice of words,” the other said. “You’ve just been implanted with a slow poison drip. Very nasty stuff. So nasty that if you don’t get a milliliter of a special antidote every twelve hours, you’ll die.” He reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out a flat metal flask. “This antidote, to be specific.”

“Which you’ll no doubt be in charge of doling out?”

“Exactly,” Mercier said. “If you try to tug on your leash—in fact, if I even
suspect
you’re tugging on your leash—I’ll dump the whole batch down the sink and sit back to watch you die.”

“Understood,” Charles said. Strangely enough, his throat was feeling less dry than it had a minute ago, despite Mercier’s threat. “But you won’t have to worry about that. I have a hundred million reasons to make sure this goes exactly as planned.”

Mercier’s lip twist twisted. “Yes; the hundred million Solarian credits you cajoled out of Citizen Secretary Saint-Just.”

“You disapprove?”

“Citizen Secretary Saint-Just’s agreements are his own affair,” Mercier said stiffly. “Me, I would have thought letting you leave with your life would be more than enough payment. Especially after all you’ve already cost the People’s Republic.”

“This will more than make up for it,” Charles promised. “Trust me.”

Mercier smiled coldly. “Of course. One last thing.”

He stepped to the side of the bed, his smile vanishing, his eyes dark and cruel as he gazed down into Charles’s face. “This is the last time you’ll see me in this uniform,” he said. “From now on, I’ll be traveling in civilian clothing, and you’ll refer to me as Citizen Mercier.
But.
” He tapped his colonel’s insignia. “These will always be here, even if you can’t see them. Aboard the
Ellipsis
I will have full authority, over you and over the mission.”