Ghost War

  I watched the PSD officers round people up, and saw Catford descend from the Jupiter’s cockpit. Some of the PSD emergency medtechs came over to help him, but from his gesticulating I could tell he didn’t want them touching him, and he didn’t want the PSD on Emblyn property. Someone encased in metal—I would have guessed Niemeyer, but they all looked huge in that power armor—pinned him back against the ’Mech’s leg and Catford seemed to settle down.

  In the distance a PSD helicopter chased the escaping vehicles for a while, but peeled off when lasers and machine-gun fire threatened it.

  I watched a little while longer, then turned away. I’d have given my eyeteeth to see the live feed of Bernard’s face when this news flash ran over the Tri-Vid, but I refrained from finding a set and turning it on. After all, I knew I’d see the replay endlessly and, with that thought in my head, I found a bed and slept very happily indeed.

  31

  I will make thee a terror to thyself, and to all they friends.

  —Jeremiah 20:4

  Manville, Capital District

  Basalt

  Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere

  16 February 3133

  Despite the resort not being open, it did have all manner of amenities available to the casual guest. Before I left in the morning, I was able to download all of the news reports on items of interest. The two lead items in almost every journal involved the raid at the Palace and Bernard’s performance on live Tri-Vid.

  Bernard actually handled himself better than I would have expected. While the host had poked fun at him, and Bernard had shot back with a few jokes that someone had scripted, the talk turned to recent events, and that brought up the whole BSU thing. Bernard had some remarks prepared that were wholly self-serving as far as the government was concerned, and constituted a nationalistic appeal to the citizens’ pride. It pretty much amounted to a call for folks to rally around the Germayne government.

  “Our world has been a very peaceful one, where we have shaped a harmonic society.” Bernard composed his face into a mask of sincerity, which, for the most part, remained in place. “The Federated Suns always found us stalwart and a positive model. The Republic did, at the start, and made us part of their grand experiment because they needed our example. But now, as this experiment is weakening and failing, we need to look to ourselves, for no one from the outside is going to come rescue us. In fact, forces from the outside are here to destroy us.

  “Our future is in our hands, and we must grasp it as tightly as we can, defending it mightily. The people committing these acts of terror, we know who they are. You wonder, but you will see among them those you thought were friends. You know who you can trust, you can see it in their open, honest eyes, in the clear voices with which they speak, and in their welcoming openness, not self-segregation. We must all band together to keep our home safe from outside influences that will tear us apart.”

  His appeal soft-soaped the racist underpinnings of his philosophy, but the clues in his comments could not be missed. He directed his fellow citizens to keep their eyes on foreigners, and from what I’d seen, that meant anyone who didn’t have round eyes or who happened to be fluent in the tongue of their ancestors as well as English. His message was as subtle as he was capable of, which told me it had been scripted, and made me wonder, just for a moment, who put those words in his mouth.

  If the host noticed Bernard’s restraint or slick delivery, he made no comment and went to a station break. In keeping with the show’s format, Bernard moved onto a couch as the next guest came out, and the next. Right after some local teen sensation had sung her heart out, the host provided Bernard a chance to comment on the news flash that the BSU had tried to destroy the Emblyn Palace. I could see a vein start twitching in the middle of Bernard’s forehead, but he refrained from exploding. In a moment of insight, he channeled his anger into his voice and denounced the BSU and its efforts. “I was just at that facility and I know why they wanted to destroy it. They are bitter people who cannot stand seeing others succeed. Basalt, which has been a peaceful place under my father’s guidance, and shall be again, welcomes success. We all work for the common good here, and just as we pulled together for the good of the people of Manville during the recent upsets, so we must unite against the BSU. We cannot let them win, and we will not. I will not. This is my vow to the true citizens of Basalt.”

  In seeing the little clip on my noteputer screen as I rode the shuttle south again, I thought he’d done a good job—terrifying though it was. The Contressa and Manville media shared my assessment, but as I read other stories about it, from cities further flung and on other continents, the reviews were scathing. Some pundits suggested that he didn’t want the Palace destroyed because that was the only resort he’d not yet been tossed from. The further from Manville the source, the harsher the criticism, and his divisive comments did not go unnoticed. One editorial even suggested that Basaltines might want to look at what BSU was saying, to see if their world had not become stagnant and, in fact, needed a quickening of blood and spirit from outside.

  It’s always that way in any society were power is centralized. The further one is from the locus of power, the weaker the grip. While the people in the outlying regions might not be disgusted enough to start a revolution, they could be induced to support one. Gypsy had already talked about salting journals and opinion shows in such outlying areas with shills who would accentuate the negative about the Germaynes. A lot of the material Elle had gathered could be leaked out there and would further weaken the Germayne regime.

  The stories about the raid were curious. Initially the raiders were identified as BSU, and that identification was tracked down to a nameless official in the government. I don’t think it was anyone connected to Bernard, but just some bureaucrat who made a lucky guess, leaked it, and waited for the PSD to confirm it. Journalists in the outlying regions had not picked up the later revisions coming out of Contressa, so the hicks in the sticks spent the early part of the day figuring that the BSU was done for.

  Contressa’s PSD did provide a box score for the raid. Both ’Mechs down, both pilots slain. The quartet of Scimitars was destroyed and their crews killed, likewise two Fox Armored Hovercars were destroyed and both Demon medium tanks went down. Most of the infantry had been killed, though three had been hospitalized, one in critical condition. Three other soldiers had been captured and were being interrogated, but it sounded as if they were keeping their mouths shut. I knew Alba was bright enough that they’d not know for whom they were working, so had little to sing about. If they could keep silent for twenty-four hours or so, that would provide enough time for Alba and her people to erase all traces of themselves in Manville.

  That actually worked in favor of the plan to turn the tables and supplant the BSU with FfW. The government identification then silence could be built into an embarrassed conspiracy to hide governmental wrongdoing. It would drive Bernard even more nuts, which means he’d be looking at lashing out hard at Emblyn.

  Reading fully occupied my time on the return trip. Quam had a great review of a restaurant on the east side, so I made a note to go there. From the terminal in Manville I took a hovercab to the Grand Germayne, went to my room, washed and changed. Just as I was going to leave, there was a knock at the door.

  I opened it and found two officers from the PSD, Capital District standing there. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Donelly, you’re to come with us.”

  “Colonel Niemeyer too busy to deal with me?”

  “We need you to come now, sir.” Both of them wore mirrored sunglasses. Their faces and their voices remained expressionless. Young and well muscled, they loomed up and pretty much let me know that saying “No” was not an option.

  I went with them. They took me to the lift, then down to the garage, and directed me to a dark, nondescript hovercar. “You’ll have to sit in the back. Regulations.”

  I nodded, ducked my head and started to climb in.

  That’s whe
n one of them dropped a fist into my left kidney. Pain shot through my body and I couldn’t breathe. My legs just went all rubber, then he hit me again. One more shot to the right kidney and I knew I’d be voiding blood for the next couple of days. If I live that long.

  They grabbed my hands, forced them behind my back and clapped restraints on me. Folding my legs up, they stuffed me into the rear seat foot wells, then slammed the door. Moments later they were in, the engine purred and we were moving.

  I would have tried to time how long it was taking us between turns so I could reverse the route, but holding your breath until your lungs burns is tough when you can’t breathe. As painful as it was to do, I arched my back and drew a little cool air in. Crunching forward I exhaled and then arched to inhale. Not pretty, not efficient, but effective for the moment.

  Oddly enough, despite being able to identify my kidnappers, I didn’t fear for my life. If the PSD was going to kill me, it would be Niemeyer himself, and I’d done nothing to give him leave to want me dead. I could see him wanting me roughed up so I’d leave, but murdered when no innocent blood had been shed? It didn’t track right for him.

  Eventually the vehicle stopped and I was dragged through a loading dock door into a small office complex. The trash strewn around and the scent of sour urine suggested it had been abandoned. Things started looking bad at that point, because it was easy to imagine being shot, left here, and only discovered after the neighbors reported an odd odor and a lot of flies buzzing around.

  They hauled me into a room, sat me down in a chair, then I caught a cuff on the back of my head. I flashed back to being on Helen, and looked up, expecting to find Commander Reis there. No such luck.

  It was Bernard and he was, ah, rather cross.

  “You lying sack of shit, Donelly.” He backhanded me, but did it badly and cracked his knuckles on my skull. “You’re more treacherous than some Kurita suck-up. You sold us out. You told them where we would be and when.”

  “How would I do that when I didn’t know those things?”

  “Well, you set us up. You made me think of the Palace and made me think of being on Tri-Vid.” He glanced at my two escorts as he sucked on a skinned knuckle. “Teach him a lesson.”

  “Sir?”

  “Hit him, dammit. Make him hurt.”

  One yanked me from the chair, slipped his arms through mine and clasped his hands at the back of my neck. The other pulled on some leather gloves that had lead shot sewed into a pouch on the backs. It would add that much more weight to the punches.

  Sure, you’re thinking that here I am, a Ghost Knight. I’ve got lots of training in how to handle a lot of situations. With my martial arts skills I’m lethal with no weapon at all. Getting out of this situation should have been child’s play.

  And it would have been save that my hands were restrained, a guy who could wrestle a ’Mech to the ground had a lock on me, and my kidneys were burning like cherry-red charcoals. This put me at a severe disadvantage, which grew larger as the PSD officer in front of me tried to permanently lodge my navel in my spinal column.

  There was little I could do. I puked on him. I let my bladder go and spat until I was dry. The two PSD guys didn’t like the whole bodily fluid thing. Bernard thought it was funny that I’d peed on myself. He took great pains in informing me of this fact, humiliating me, which is why he let them sit me down again.

  “I hope you like sitting there like that, Donelly, because that’s how you’re going to die.”

  “Sure. Fine. I’ll die. That won’t save you.”

  He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. Ask Alba. I sent her a message. I told her to abort.”

  “She didn’t get a note.”

  “It was at the dead-drop. In a can.” I turned my head and spat, missing him. “I made the mark. I told you to abort.”

  “Liar!”

  “Fine. Not my fault some eco-freak picks up the can.” I raised my head myself. “You sure she didn’t get it?”

  “She didn’t say anything. . . .” His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe she didn’t. She’s a merc. She can be bought. Maybe Emblyn owns her. She knew the details, right? Who else?”

  “Me, Teyte, her.”

  “And her boss. Or your cousin’s.”

  That earned me another slap. “Teyte is not a traitor.”

  “Fine. One less suspect for you.” Bloody saliva dripped to pool between my feet. “She’ll say she got it too late. She just picked it up too late.”

  “She’s not a traitor, either.”

  “Yes, my lord. You have a traitor. You have to smoke him out.” I snorted. “You don’t, Emblyn hurts you bad.”

  “How do I find the traitor?”

  I straightened up, then looked at the guards. “How much do you trust them?”

  Bernard looked up, then waved them out of the room. “How?”

  “Tell Alba you’re doing a political op. Tell her one plan. Tell her subordinates each another plan. If it is a political op, Emblyn will use me to counter it. I get the details, tell you. You know who leaked it.”

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I can see that working.”

  “Good. Keep the pressure on Emblyn. More action.”

  “More disaster. We’ll get sold out again.”

  “No, you have to do what he’s doing. He can’t cover everything. You went for a big bite and got hurt. So now go for nibbles. So many, so fast, targets chosen at random by teams with no oversight. He can’t cover them all. A hundred little cuts will bleed him just as well as one big one.” I smiled. “And then, when he’s scrambling to cover the little ones . . .”

  “We go back after the Palace.” Bernard started pacing. “Was I wrong about you, Donelly, or are you setting me up again?”

  “You know what? I don’t care about you or Basalt. Get me out of here and I’m heading off Basalt. If there’s a DropShip going this afternoon, I’m on it.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my man inside Emblyn’s organization. You’ll deliver the traitor to me.”

  “Fine, then I’m gone.”

  “No, Mr. Donelly, nowhere near gone.” Bernard gave me a smile that made me nostalgic for Helen. “After the traitor, you’ll give me Ring Emblyn himself.”

  32

  He who has the gold makes the rules.

  —The Golden Rule Rev. 2.0

  Manville, Capital District

  Basalt

  Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere

  16 February 3133

  Bernard called his bullyboys back in and they dragged me down to their hovercar. Given the deterioration of my personal hygiene, they stuffed me in the trunk and drove around for a while, then dumped me in an alley. They took turns kicking me in the stomach, then uncuffed me.

  One grabbed a handful of my hair, then slapped me with the other hand. “Be smart. Do what he wants. Next time we’re planting you where you’ll never be found.” He let my hair go then kicked me into a garbage midden.

  I passed out at that point and when I came to, I actually thought I was dreaming. I was on my back in a garbage pile that reeked of puked pizza and oranges. A rather large rodent was sitting on my chest and came upright as my eyes opened. It flashed me a grin full of nibbler teeth, which made my belly ache more, and then it spoke.

  “So sorry a sight even a nibbler won’t bite you.”

  It took me a moment to marvel at the nibbler speaking about himself in the third person, but then my brain coordinated things and told me the voice was actually coming from above and to my right. The nibbler and I both looked in that direction simultaneously. The rodent scampered off and I wished I could have.

  I groaned. “Good evening, Colonel Niemeyer. Out for your constitutional?”

  “Nope. Back from the coroner’s office, where we’re putting BSU corpses together like puzzles. Lo
ts of work, and it’s your fault.”

  I rolled to my right and gained a knee. “My fault? Enable help files, please.”

  “Come off it, Donelly. I know what’s going on.” He posted his fists on his hips. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  He almost had me on that one, but my head had cleared just enough for my training to click in. Any time someone in authority asks an open-ended question like that—“Do you know why I stopped you?” or “Do you know how fast you were going?”—they’re fishing for information they can use against you. The logical answer to his question would be to assume he knew about FfW or BSU and actually had tied me to things. In an effort to avoid trouble, I might spill my guts, which would just put me in deeper with him.

  I was about to be sullen and vaguely insulting in my response, but my brain had started running and an idea popped up. “Actually, I think you’re here because of an internal PSD investigation into the activities of officers Higgle and Giggle. You know they’re working for Bernard Germayne, you’re afraid laws are being broken and that the integrity of any investigation you might be doing is compromised because of them. You need to catch them red-handed, however, preferably with Bernard there too, because he has enough influence to be able to protect them and discredit you. How close is that?”

  Niemeyer blinked, then crouched down beside me. “I think you’re a lot smarter than I give you credit for.” He looked me over, then shook his head. “Not that you give that impression in your current state.”

  “Yeah, well, I fell down the stairs. Into a urinal.”

  He reached out and turned my face to the side where a bruise was coming up from Higgle’s last slap. “Okay, we’re going to have a conversation, and I want to fast forward through all the macho posturing. I know you won’t give Bernard up to me. You’re not going to turn nibbler. And maybe you have it in the back of your head that you’ll get Haggle and Gaggle yourself. Ditch that idea. They’ll kill you or you’ll kill them, and if you do, I’ll kill you. I’ll just have to.”