The plan and the general amnesty that moved toward reconciliation was crafted by the planet’s new leadership. Count Hector did recover from his wound, but would never be the robust man he had been before. He had a change of heart, which many put down to rumors that he’d actually died in the hospital and had been revived. Others assumed that learning of his son’s treachery had wounded him more deeply.
I put it down to the fact that while Bernard was off trying to supplant his father, Bianca had been there at her father’s side. The media reports would have had everyone believe that anyone Bianca had ever helped had turned around and sent messages and flowers, or made donations in her father’s name. The outpouring of concern for how she felt was tremendous and, for once, the media couldn’t blow it all out of proportion.
Bianca, at her father’s request, assumed leadership of Basalt and immediately set about using her network of friends to calm fears, organize relief efforts and expand the sorts of things she was already doing. The people rallied around her and the peace that Basalt had known again descended on the planet.
Public Safety personnel did manage to nab Gypsy and, with just a little pressure, he began to sing loud and long about his affairs both on Basalt and elsewhere. Republic analysts are still poring over the transcripts of his interviews, pulling out tidbits. If even a tenth of what he reports is accurate, the burgeoning political storms on the horizon really could rend The Republic. Some people have dismissed his claims as clearly fanciful, but based on what I saw on Helen and Basalt, I fear he could tell us even more, all of it true.
His testimony was enough to convict Aldrington Emblyn of multiple counts of treason. Share prices of Ring’s corporation collapsed abruptly, which caused something of a disaster for those people who had invested in it. Bianca’s Basalt Foundation organized a relief effort there, funded by large donations by two savvy individuals who had shorted a vast amount of Emblyn stock. On the way back to the hotel from the hospital, I’d shorted a million shares and suggested to Quam that he do the same. He shorted two million: “When I get advice that good, I employ it twice.”
Jacob Bannson swept in and snapped up Emblyn’s holdings at fire-sale prices. He guaranteed jobs would continue and that he would find a way to let the entire Inner Sphere know what a stunning resort destination Basalt was. It was a quick and brilliant move on his part, for not only did it save Basalt’s economy and let him expand into a market he’d not previously had, but everyone on Basalt thought nothing but the best of him. He’d bought a lot of loyalty, and I was afraid of how he might go about spending it.
My concerns stemmed from the fact that I was pretty sure Bannson had been the instigator behind everything. Isabel Siwek’s files showed she’d been given a million stones to come over to Bernard’s side, and Bernard didn’t have that sort of money. Someone had bought him a present. I was fairly certain that someone was Elle, who had vanished. She’d set me up to be killed or arrested on the night of the raid on Number 8: if I’d not died there, Gypsy could have figured her leak to me became my leak to Bernard, so he’d have had me killed. Since I was a moderating influence and once I was out of the picture things escalated sharply, it struck me that she was playing both ends against the middle, and Bannson certainly did well in that middle.
My speculations about Bannson never made it into the media, primarily because the chronicler of all things treasonous and evil held himself to very high journalistic standards. Armed with exclusive interviews from a Republic Knight, Colonel Niemeyer, Kim Knutson, Countess Bianca Germayne and a shadowy insider who laid bare the entire covert war for control of Basalt, Quam vaulted from life-style commentary and restaurant reviews to investigative journalism at its finest. His stories, which were well written and delivered even better when he hosted a documentary series, elevated him to a position of respect that he never would have imagined he would know.
The other nice thing about working with Quam is that we were able to kill Sam Donelly and leave him dead. Bernard’s conviction on charges of treason far overshadowed the auxiliary charge of conspiracy to murder Sam. Someday I’ll go back to Obsidian Island and visit him. He’ll have lots of time on his hands. I wonder if he’ll want to play cards?
All is well, they say, that ends well, and the war for Basalt did end well. Casualties were minimized and damage done likewise. Still, there was some unfinished business that needed taking care of. Though I could only watch on Tri-Vid from a bar on Helen, I did smile as newly minted Republic Knight-Errant Nicodemus Niemeyer and his aide, Alba Dolehide—seconded to duty with him after her recall to and reinstatement in Stone’s Lament—arrested Ichabod Reis.
When Gypsy started singing, the events on Helen had become very clear. Reis had hired Gypsy to organize a small terrorist group so the citizenry would back Reis’ getting more power. In the jittery days after the HPG net went down, the plan worked perfectly.
Andy Harness turned on his barstool, jerked a thumb at the Tri-Vid projection, and smiled. “Could you believe that, Sam? He finally got what was coming to him. There he was, thinking he was invincible, and they got him. Shows there’s some justice in the universe, after all.”
“That there is.” I wanted to tell him that Niemeyer’s next task was to find him, interview him, and present him a lump sum representing all the pension he’d been robbed of, but that wasn’t my place. I’d told Niemeyer to take holos. I wanted to see the look on Andy’s face, but it was time for Sam Donelly to fully fade away.
I tossed a ten-stone note on the bar and pointed to Andy’s mug. “Keep it coming and cold until this is gone.” I slid from my stool and slapped him on the back. “Be good, Andy. Have a good life.”
He looked up at me. “Don’t say it like that, Sam, geez. Makes it sound as if I’ll never see you again, as if you’re dead or something.”
“In vino veritas, and beer, profundity.” I smiled and backed toward the door. “I am dead, Andy. You won’t see me again.”
“I’ll see you again, Sam.” The man hoisted his refilled mug in a salute. “You’ll be around. You don’t look like a ghost to me.”
No, my friend, I don’t, which is exactly why I am one.
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Michael A. Stackpole, Ghost War
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