Shadow of Victory - eARC (54 page)

Trainers and medical personnel rushed onto the field. It took them several minutes—minutes during which the crowd noise rumbled with mingled anger and shock—to get Jura’s leg splinted, lift him onto the counter-grav stretcher, and get him off the field. Finally, though, it was time to resume play…and the referee handed the ball to the Warriors.

For just an instant, shocked silence enveloped the stadium. Then the cheers and whistles began from the Mělník side of the field one bare instant before the Velehrad crowd realized that not only had no penalty been called, but the throw-in had been awarded to the Warriors.

“Oh, shit,” Eduard Klíma said almost conversationally over Šiml’s com, and then all hell broke loose.

* * *

“Christ, Zdeněk!”

Adam Šiml strode back and forth across his office like a caged, unkempt tiger, badly in need of a shave, a shower, a change of clothes, and at least ten uninterrupted hours of sleep. He ran his fingers angrily through his hair, his expression ugly, and his voice was harsh with much more than his obvious exhaustion.

“What a frigging nightmare!” he jerked out. “Bad enough for a football match, but this—!”

“It would’ve been a lot worse without you, Adam,” Zdeněk Vilušínský said. “A lot worse. I don’t think anyone else could've done as much to get them out of the streets again.”

“And that’s going to be one hell of a lot of comfort to their families, isn’t it?” Šiml grated, and Vilušínský was forced to nod unhappily.

The riot in Velehrad Stadium had spread rapidly. At least some of the fans had smuggled truncheons past security—Klíma and the Velehrad Police were asking some very tough questions about just how that had happened—but there’d been plenty of beer bottles and temporary overflow seating to use as improvised weapons. And then the riot inside the stadium spilled out into the capital’s streets. The replay video of the incident—which clearly showed Jura sliding on the treacherous footing and going down with no contact between any defender and him or the ball—hadn't done one thing to quell it…especially when some Lions supporter announced it was obviously computer-generated to justify a terrible call! The insanity to which rabid sports fans could fall prey never failed to amaze Adam Šiml, even after all these years.

But once the riot hit the streets, it had only grown in fury, and hastily assembled riot police had moved in. Unfortunately, no one had seen the madness coming. The cops had been assembled on too little notice, and there’d been too few on duty at the outset to deploy in the department’s standing riot control plans. They’d done their absolute best, Šiml knew…and, in too many cases, they’d simply been plowed under. Ground cars and trams had been overturned, windows smashed, shops and businesses looted. Then the arson had started.

And that was when Jan Cabrnoch ordered Daniel Kápička to deploy the Safety Force to support the city police and “restore calm and public order.”

To his credit, Kápička had argued, but Cabrnoch had simply repeated the order. And, as Kápička had feared—and Šiml could have predicted—the instant CPSF uniforms appeared in the capital’s streets, what had been a riot of infuriated sports fans became something else entirely. All the resentment which had festered since the Náměstí Žlutých Růží demonstrations had exploded and, for the first time in anyone’s memory, rioters—regular citizens, many of whom had been nowhere near the Stadium—actually attacked the CPSF with their bare hands.

Šiml and Sokol’s leadership had done everything humanly possible to quell the rioting. They’d been everywhere, with Šiml at their head, helping fight fires, helping medical teams, appealing over bullhorns and on the public boards for calm, pleading with the rioters to just go home to their families. They’d snatched what sleep they could when they could, and there’d been damned little of it. For that matter, Šiml’s face and torso had been badly bruised when he’d personally intervened at one point and been trampled for his effort.

“Three days, Zdeněk! Three days!” He was literally shaking with anger. “If that idiot—no, if that frigging murderer—hadn’t sent the Safeties into that mess, we could’ve…we could’ve—!”

Words failed him, and he kicked a chair clear across the office. It crashed into the wall and bounced back, and he swore viciously. Then he whirled to face his oldest friend.

“Three hundred and eighty-seven dead,” he snarled. “That’s the official count, but you and I know damned well it’s low. And even Cabrnoch admits to four times that many badly injured! God only knows how many more people who got hurt didn't report to hospital in the middle of all that! And that bastard in the Presidential Palace is still passing it off as only sports enthusiasts and thugs who got out of control.” His lips worked for a moment and he actually spat on the floor. “Oh, there were ‘out-of-control thugs’ out there, and most of the bastards were wearing uniforms! I will fucking kill the miserable piece of shit with my own hands!”

Vilušínský glanced at Filip Malý, who stood attentively against the wall beside the office door. The younger man’s expression was as ugly as Šiml’s, which was hardly surprising, since there was a very good reason Šiml had selected him from Kápička’s nominees. CPSF lieutenant or no, Malý had been a member of Jiskra for over five years.

“Adam, please. Take a deep breath.”

“Take a deep breath?!” Šiml glared at him incredulously, and Vilušínský shoved up out of his chair and glared right back at him.

“Yes,” he said harshly. “I know how furious you are, and I’m just as angry—don’t think for an instant I’m not! But I also know how exhausted you are. You’re not thinking clearly, and God knows you’ve got every excuse for it! But you have to control yourself. If you don’t, if you lose it and openly attack Cabrnoch now, what happens to Jiskra and everyone in it?”

Šiml stared at him, and Vilušínský pressed on quickly.

“I know you never wanted what's just happened, but you need to recognize the opportunity in it.”

“Opportunity? What opportunity?” Šiml demanded, and Vilušínský drew a deep breath. It was a sign of Šiml’s fatigue and fury that he hadn’t already seen the opening for himself, he thought.

“There are five things you need to consider,” he said. “First, this nightmare’s brought the opposition to Cabrnoch to a boil. It may cool a bit in the next few weeks, but it’ll be there for a hell of a long time. Second, Sabatino and Castelbranco are going to realize that just as clearly as you and I—or Cabrnoch—do. Third, you did more—you and Sokol—to get people back out of the streets and pull the injured out of that goddamned mess than anyone else on the frigging planet. And, fourth, because of that, at this moment you’re the most popular man in the star system. I know this isn’t the way you’d have chosen to bring any of that about, but it’s already happened, Adam. And that's my fifth point, because now that it has, you have to control yourself. You've got to go on being the voice of calm reason. Because I can’t think of anything that could’ve done a better job of convincing Sabatino Cabrnoch’s in trouble…and that you’re definitely the best candidate to replace him.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Governor Orville Barregos turned from his contemplation of the brilliantly illuminated towers of the Shuttlesport skyline as Jeremy Frank, his senior aide, opened his office door.

Frank stood aside, waving another man courteously through it, then followed the visitor. At a hundred and eighty centimeters, Barregos and his aide were of much the same height, but the newcomer was ten centimeters taller than either of them. He was also very broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and dark complexioned, and something about his chin reminded Barregos of Prince Michael Winton, the Duke of Winton-Serisburg.

Which probably shouldn’t have been surprising, under the circumstances.

“Governor,” Frank said, “allow me to introduce Mister Håkon Ellingsen.”

“Mister Ellingsen.” Barregos extended his hand and forbore mentioning how unlikely he found that name in connection with that chin and complexion.

“Governor.” Ellingsen’s grip was strong, without being overpowering, and a white smile flashed. “Thank you for agreeing to see me…after hours, as it were.”

“I have to admit I’m a little perplexed by your request for anonymity,” Barregos replied as he and his visitor settled into facing chairs at the small conference table in the corner of his large office while Frank produced cups and a tall carafe of coffee. “Aside from the obvious fact that you’re up to something you’d just as soon nobody in the League found out about, I mean.”

“Actually, it’s not just the Sollies we’re worried about this time around,” Ellingsen said. Frank held the carafe over his cup, and the Manticoran looked up and nodded. “That’s our primary concern, of course,” he went on as the aide poured, “but I’m sure you’re aware of this ‘Mesan Alignment’ Captain Zilwicki and Agent Cachat uncovered.”

“Queen Berry’s relayed at least some of your…suspicions to us.” Barregos nodded. “Frankly, I’m inclined to think there’s something to them.” He shrugged. “It could explain several ‘coincidences’ that’ve bothered me for decades now.”

“Odd. We’ve had much the same experience.” Ellingsen’s teeth flashed again. This time no one could have mistaken it for a smile. “But that’s one reason I’m maintaining such a low profile. We’re still trying to figure out where the ‘Alignment’ might have its own sources, and I think we can all take it for granted that we’d find anything it heard about and thought would hurt our position vis-à-vis the League being whispered into someone’s ear in Old Chicago just as quickly as their little dispatch boats could get it there.”

“That would appear to be a reasonable assumption,” Barregos acknowledged with a wintry smile.

“In addition, of course,” Ellingsen continued, “given the current state of affairs, it probably wouldn’t be to your advantage if Kolokoltsov and the other Mandarins found out you were even talking to us.”

This time, it was the Manticoran’s turn to shrug, and Barregos nodded.

“That’s undoubtedly true. And to be honest, that’s why I’m a little puzzled to be speaking to you instead of having this passed through Torch. We’re in regular contact with them, and Permanent Senior Undersecretary Kolokoltsov’s well aware of our treaty relationship.”

“And that would make it much more reasonable—and less suspicious—for you to talk to an envoy from Queen Berry,” Ellingsen agreed. “Unfortunately, this is very closely held, and the decision was taken—at a considerably higher level than my own—not to read Princess Ruth or Queen Berry in on it.”

“I see.” Barregos’ eyes narrowed. “That’s…very interesting.”

“I thought you might find it that way.”

Ellingsen sat back in his chair, nursing his coffee cup, and regarded the governor levelly for several seconds. Then he squared his shoulders and sat upright once again, with the air of a man coming to the critical point of his visit.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this Governor, but we’ve been watching developments here in the Maya Sector and a certain very quiet…evolution in your relationship with Erewhon. We’re also aware your local defense force is…a bit more powerful than anyone in Old Chicago realizes, let’s say. Based on what we know, our analysts have reached certain conclusions in regard to Maya, and that’s what brings me here. You see—”

* * *

“Well, damn,” Luiz Roszak said mildly as he stirred minced garlic, rosemary, salt, and coarse-ground black pepper into the olive oil.

Barregos sat patiently, well accustomed to his admiral’s habits, while Roszak finished stirring and then rubbed the mixture into the large beef tenderloin on his counter. He worked carefully, painstakingly coating every square centimeter of surface, then opened the hood of the gas grill. He adjusted the gas jets on its right side and used a pair of tongs to lubricate the hot end of the grate with an oil-soaked rag. Then he lifted the tenderloin and settled it onto the grate with a sizzle, closed the hood, wiped his hands on his apron, and turned back to the governor.

“Given how much the Manties seem to’ve figured out, I have to wonder if they have sources in Erewhon we don’t know about.”

“No one ever said their ONI was incompetent, Luiz,” Barregos pointed out. “I tend to doubt Captain Zilwicki’s likely to keep any deductions he may’ve reached about our intentions a deep dark secret where Admiral Givens is concerned, either. On the other hand, given the amount of…insight Ellingsen demonstrated, I actually suspect a lot of his information came from Erewhon via Nouveau Paris now that Pritchart’s signed on for this Grand Alliance of theirs.”

“That would make sense,” Roszak conceded, checking his chrono and then beginning to chop romaine lettuce on a sideboard. “And I suppose it’s reasonable they’d keep this very closely held. I’m still a little surprised they’ve decided to leave the Torches in the dark about it, though.”

“I thought about that, but actually, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have reached the same decision, given the fact that Jeremy X and Web Du Havel both have such long-standing connections with the Ballroom,” Barregos said, and snorted as Roszak raised both eyebrows at him. “I’m not saying the Ballroom doesn’t know how to maintain operational security, Luiz! No, what might have kept me from bringing Torch in is that the Ballroom already has its fingers in so many pies, a lot of which involve planets that would just love to kick OFS into the nearest supernova. It would have to be awful tempting from Torch’s perspective to make this sort of offer to their friends in that kind of situation.”

“And every time they did, it would increase the chance of its leaking.” Roszak nodded. “I suppose that does make sense. But what about Delvecchio? She’s right here in Maya, and she’s effectively promised Jiri delivery of those Mark 16s we talked about in November. If she’s carrying that kind of information back and forth, why not use her as the conduit?”

He finished chopping the romaine, deposited it in a large salad bowl, then reopened the grill’s hood and turned the sizzling tenderloin to sear the other side.

“I raised that point with Ellingsen, actually,” the governor replied.

“And he said?”

“Two things. First, Elizabeth, Pritchart, and Mayhew have apparently decided it makes more sense for the Manties’ Foreign Office to take the lead in this. And because it’s so tightly held, they’re not bringing anyone in on the Navy side unless and until they absolutely have to. And, secondly, they sent Ellingsen straight out from Landing both because it’s a shorter communications loop and because eliminating as many relay points as possible cuts down on the number of chances for something to be misconstrued or misunderstood.”

“Which would be a very bad thing under the circumstances,” Roszak observed as he began cutting onions and tomato for the salad.

“Oh, I think that’s at least a mild understatement,” Barregos said dryly, and the admiral chuckled.

He went on slicing for at least another full minute, never looking up from his cutting board, then raised his eyes to the governor once more.

“At this point,” he said, “all twelve Sharpshooters are fully commissioned and worked up. We haven’t taken delivery of any Mark 16s yet, but Delvecchio’s provided us with operational profiles on them, so we’ve been able to work up our tactical crews with them in simulations, as well as the Mk 17s. We still don’t have any of the superdreadnoughts, though, and we won’t before February. So even given the kind of firepower we can produce, we’re not ready to stand off Battle Fleet by ourselves.”

He checked his chrono again, then reopened the grill, turned off the burners under the tenderloin, slid it to the cool end of the grate, and turned the single burner at that end to medium. He inserted the temperature probe, closed it again, and turned back to Barregos.

“So I suppose the question is how much fleet support the Alliance is prepared to give us. From what you’ve said, they’ve got a lot of irons in the fire right now with this ‘Operation Bastille’ of theirs.”

“Ellingsen was playing that close to his vest,” Barregos said. “How many irons they’ve got at the moment, I mean. But when I mentioned what Renée’s been picking up from Kondratii he more or less admitted that was the Manties. So they’ve obviously been working on this for quite a while, which I’m willing to bet means that saying they have ‘a lot of irons in the fire’ understates the situation by, oh, no more than a light-year or so.”

“Which lends more point to my question.”

“Indeed it does. I made that point to him, too, since the Mandarins would have to make squashing us a much bigger priority than dealing with someplace like Kondratii.”

“And he said?”

“And he said they fully understand that. By the same token, that would make us far more useful to them as a distraction, and from a cold-blooded, pragmatic standpoint, that also makes us worth a considerably larger investment in tonnage. According to Ellingsen, they’re prepared to meet any ‘reasonable requirement’ we might suggest.”

“That we might suggest?” Roszak repeated, and the governor nodded.

“They don’t expect us to buy a pig in a poke, Luiz. He says that if we’re interested, he can be back here by late next month with a representative from Alexander-Harrington and Caparelli to discuss force levels directly with you.”

“Well, in that case,” the admiral said with a smile, beginning to toss the salad, “I’m all in favor of listening to whatever the Admiralty’s representative has to say.

* * *

The com chimed and she punched the key to open a window in the middle of the calendar she was annotating for Commodore Terekhov. All she saw was Quentin Saint-James’ wallpaper and the icon of a voice-only connection. Then a voice spoke.

“Howdy, Helen,” Stephen Westman said. “Tell me, would it happen the Commodore—and you, of course—would be able to join me at The Rare Sirloin for dinner in a couple of hours, say?”

“I just happen to be working on his schedule right this minute,” she replied with a smile. “I think he’s planning on a working dinner here on the flagship, but that hasn’t been set in ceramacrete yet. If that’s not what he has in mind, he could probably be on the ground in Estelle by, say, nineteen hundred your time. Can I tell him whether this is a social invitation or if it’s a case of your going back to your wicked ways?”

“No, I haven’t ‘gone back to my wicked ways,’ young lady!” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. Then his tone sobered. “But it ’pears somebody else may have something along those lines he wants to talk about.”

“Along the lines of what the Mesans tried to pull here in the Quadrant, you mean?” she asked more sharply. “I imagine he’d be very interested in anything like that. I’ll have to ask him, though. Have you got a moment?”

“I don’t mind holding,” he said.

“Then I’ll be back with you in a sec,” she said, and punched Sir Aivars Terekhov’s com combination.

“Yes, Helen?” Terekhov said a moment later.

“Sir, I’ve got Stephen Westman on the line. I know you were thinking about having supper with Captain Pope, Commander Stillwell, and Captain Carlson, but he’d like to invite you—and me—to dinner at The Rare Sirloin at nineteen hundred this evening.”

“Would he?” Terekhov cocked his head. “Should I assume you think I ought to accept his invitation instead?”

“Actually, Sir, I think that might be a good idea,” she said seriously. “From what he’s saying, he thinks he’s stumbled across something related to what the Mesans were trying to pull here in the Quadrant. If I had to guess, Sir, I think he’s probably bringing it to you because he knows you better than any of Admiral Gold Peak’s other senior officers.”

“I see.” Terekhov’s eyes had narrowed. They stayed that way for a moment, then he nodded. “Well, if that’s what my flag lieutenant thinks, then it’s probably worth following up. Nineteen hundred, you said?”

“Yes, Sir. I think that would give you time to make it dirtside after your captains’ conference this afternoon.”

“In that case, tell Mister Westman we’ll be there.”

“Yes, Sir.” She cut the circuit and brought the connection to Westman back up. “Mister Westman?”

“Yes?”

“Sir Aivars says he’ll be happy to join you for dinner. We’ll see you at nineteen hundred, if you want to go ahead and make reservations.”

“Fine!” Westman said in a satisfied tone. “Tell the Commodore I appreciate it, and I’ll see both of you then. Clear.”

* * *

Helen followed her commodore into the dimly lit, incredibly expensive restaurant. As always, the combination of dim lighting, soft music, delicious aromas, and peanut shell-littered floor struck her as distinctly incongruous. But it was very Montanan, she admitted, just like the exposed overhead beams and the snarling Montana cougar’s heads mounted on the walls.

The maître d’ personally escorted the two of them—well, actually, she thought, he’s escorting the Commodore. I’m more of an afterthought—to their table. Westman and a stranger were already seated, waiting for them.

The Montanan stood, offering his hand to Terekhov. The two men shook firmly, and then Westman turned to Helen. In her case, though, she got a hug. Which, she thought, was a far cry from the hostility with which he’d initially met her and the Commodore.

“Aivars, Helen,” he said then, waving at the very ordinary-looking man, “allow me t’ introduce Mister Ankenbrandt—Michael Ankenbrandt. He’s a purchasing agent for the Trifecta Corporation out of Mobius. Came to talk to me about beef this morning.”