In Fire Forged Page 8

  Many of those aboard had at least some medical training, and Dulcis McKinley’s statement that Ruth had been only lightly drugged was confirmed. They had decided to let the child sleep off the drug naturally. At this point, a stimulant might be more shock than aid.

  Todd piloted the ship. Alice Ramsbottom, looking very serious, acted as co-pilot. Her parents—Michael was willing to bet George Ramsbottom, rather than Babette, was behind the plot—might never come to trial. However, for Alice herself there seemed to be no doubts as to their involvement. Her world was due for some major changes.

  The four security officers settled in the rear of the passenger compartment, and for the first time since his return home Michael found himself more or less alone with Judith.

  She looked relaxed but tranquil. Ruth slept sprawled over both their laps, creating a curious but not in the least unpleasant intimacy.

  “She’s safe,” Judith said, stroking the child’s dyed brown hair. “And you’re safe. It’s odd. I never thought of myself as a danger to you.”

  Michael cleared his throat, awkward yet curiously at peace. “I guess what I thought I’d kept to myself must have been more obvious than I realized.”

  “You love me,” Judith said simply. “I can see that now, and I…”

  She turned and took his hand in hers, then stretched up so she could kiss him softly on one cheek, “And I love you. I never let myself realize how deeply I cared for you until that moment came when you were willing to sacrifice your honor and that of your family to save Ruth—and even though Ruth is the moon and the stars to me, I couldn’t let you do that. I couldn’t let you hurt yourself, not even to save her.”

  All too aware of the array of security officers in back of them, Michael settled for sliding his arm around her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you so very much for loving me.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider marriage? My sister won’t mind. In fact, now that I think about various things she’s said to me, I think she may have suspected for a long while who held my heart.”

  “Ask me.”

  “Will you marry me, Judith?”

  “I will.”

  This time Michael did kiss her. It was a very chaste kiss by the standards of a newly engaged couple, but held a considerable amount of promise.

  “There are a lot of people who aren’t going to like this,” Judith said. Then, to Michael’s delight, she laughed. “But after everything we’ve faced together, I don’t think mere disapproval is going to change a thing.”

  “No,” Michael said, holding her close against his side. “It’s not going to matter at all.”

  * * *

  George and Babette Ramsbottom read the handwritten note together.

  “Dear Mom and Dad,

  “I know what you’ve been doing—about the kidnapping and how you were willing to send a small child into exile and possibly death if that would further your political aims. I know you thought you were doing the best thing for the Star Kingdom, but I’m afraid I don’t agree.

  “I also know you’ve cleverly arranged matters so that the people you’ve hurt so terribly—powerful and highly placed as they are—can’t touch you without the information that would come out in a trial damaging both them and the causes they value without hurting you nearly as much.

  “After all, you two only have your jobs, livelihood, and personal freedom at stake. They’d be risking the welfare of the Star Kingdom and that of her new Grayson allies. They won’t put the kingdom at risk, so you’re safe.

  “Or at least you’re safe as long as I keep my mouth shut. You may have thought I never noticed just how contrived your supposed enmity is, but I’ve been aware of the deception for years. I know about your clandestine meetings. I know how you’ve manipulated your political and professional allies precisely because they believe you two are estranged, and that therefore information shared with one would never, ever be learned by the other.

  “Can you imagine what would happen to you if word of your cozy arrangement was released by such an unimpeachable source as your own daughter? I think you do. You’d be ruined socially, politically, and probably financially. I suppose you’d still have each other, but not much else.

  “This letter is to inform you that your freedom to act is going to be restricted from this point on. Although Prince Michael will not move against you on the matter of the kidnapping of his soon-to-be stepdaughter, Ruth, I want you to know he knows—not just suspects—that one of you was behind the kidnapping. So even though you’re getting away with this crime, you’re going to be under observation from this point on. Take care.

  “Therefore, think twice or even three times before attempting anything even remotely like this again. Play your political games as you will, but leave the innocent out of it. If I even suspect you’re involved in anything in the least criminal, I’ll shout the truth about you to every newsie on the beat. And I’ll be very, very convincing. You’ll be ruined.

  “Since it’s never a good idea to be the only one with a dangerous secret, I’ve confided in someone I trust completely. His name is Todd Liatt. He’s one of Prince Michael’s closest friends. Todd will be given a copy of this letter, and copies of certain other documents and holos in my possession—see attached file—and will pass them on to Prince Michael if anything happens either to me or to…well, to anyone at all. And I understand from Todd that he’s made…insurance arrangements of his own, in case you should suddenly feel particularly adventurous.

  “I’m writing you this, rather than confronting you in person, because I know you for resourceful and ruthless souls. Given that you’re not likely to be overly pleased with me, I don’t think I’ll be living at home for a while.

  “Don’t worry about me, though. I won’t be on the streets. Judith of Masada has invited me to come and live with her. Her new—well, new to them, anyhow—relationship with Prince Michael means Judith needs a crash course in all the social graces and political complications she’s going to face as fiancée and eventually wife to a member of the royal family. Judith has asked me if I’ll be her coach. I’ll be drawing a good salary, so don’t think threatening to cut off my allowance will have any effect.

  “Why haven’t I exposed you right off? Well, you are my parents, and I do love you, strange and manipulative creatures that you are. Don’t disappoint me by suddenly getting dumb.

  “Love, your daughter,

  “Alice Ramsbottom.”

  An Act of War

  Timothy Zahn

  The People’s Republic of Haven, it was said by those who knew it well, had never been anything but a depressing study in contrasts.

  On the one hand were the upper elite, the movers and shakers of the People’s Republic, the ones who put up the brave and arrogant front for the rest of the galaxy. They were the ones who spoke of freedom and equality in the glowing tones that had swayed so many of their fellow elitists onto their side, in the Solarian League and elsewhere.

  On the other hand were the vast majority of the people themselves, the poor and disenfranchised and demoralized. They were the ones who took their dole and tried to survive on it, all the while keeping their mouths shut lest a discordant note amid all that glowing equality get them vanished where their mouths would be kept shut for them.

  Haven in time of war was just more of the same. A lot more.

  Still, there were compensations, Charles reminded himself as he picked up the exquisitely cut crystal tumbler from the polished wood table and took a sip of the excellent brandy his hosts had pressed on him. As the deprivations of a wartime economy squeezed all but the very top levels of the elite, it also squeezed out the sweat of desperation among the movers and shakers.

  Especially when those same movers and shakers looked to be losing that war.

  The two men across from Charles lifted their eyes from the papers he’d set on the table before them, locked eyes briefly
and wordlessly with each other, then turned again to Charles. “So you’re saying this will work on any sensor array?” the taller one, Armond, asked cautiously. “Even military ones?”

  “Even military ones,” Charles confirmed. “Provided, of course, that you can get the sheath wrapped around the transmission line leading from the actual sensor to the computer or viewscreen.”

  “If you’ll forgive me, this seems just a little too easy,” the shorter one, Miklos, said, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  But only a hint. Armond was the head of one of the Peeps’ most distinguished electronics firms, and Miklos was his chief tech, and Citizen Secretaries Rob Pierre and Oscar Saint-Just were breathing down their necks in the most ominous possible way. The Manticoran technological edge was slowly but steadily grinding away the Peep’s numerical advantage, and Haven desperately needed something to turn that around. A fresh infusion of Solly technology would be just what the doctor ordered.

  And if Armond and Miklos could buy it under the table and pass it off to Pierre and Saint-Just as their own creation, so much the better.

  “Of course it’s easy,” Charles explained, adjusting the level of patience in his voice to match the level of suspicion in Miklos’s. “The hard part is never the tech, but the execution. But as I say, if you can get the Redactor in place, you can put basically anything you want on the other person’s screen.”

  “Including nothing?” Armond asked.

  “Including nothing,” Charles assured him. “Your attacking ship can come right into energy range, and they’ll never even see it.”

  Armond nodded, running his finger gently across the smooth plastic of the sample Redactor that Charles had brought to this particular session of show-and-tell. “A cloak of invisibility,” the Peep murmured.

  “Or a hundred cloaks,” Charles said. “You can actually program the Redactor to erase everything within sensor range that’s running a PRN transponder.”

  “Yes, but a hundred of them?” Miklos asked, frowning.

  Charles shrugged. A hundred ships really was more than the Redactor could handle. But if he’d learned anything over the years, it was to never backtrack. “Or even more,” he said. “It all depends on how much money you’re willing to spend.” He gestured toward the device on the table. “Now, this model only has enough processing power to erase one or maybe two ships. But I know where I can get my hands on advanced models that can handle up to probably even two hundred.”

  “Those are much larger, I assume,” Miklos said. Beside him, Armond pulled out his phone and quietly answered it.

  “Not as much as you might think,” Charles said. “Our processors and storage are far more compact than anything you’re likely to find around here.” He gave the other a faintly mocking smile. “Even on Manticore,” he added.

  Miklos’s expression changed subtly, and Charles knew that he had them. The Manties were the bugaboo in this part of the galaxy, respected or feared by pretty much everyone around them. And rightfully so. Their tech, particularly their military tech, was head and shoulders above anything else that could be had out here. Not as good as Solly stuff, of course, but the League was highly resistant to letting their tech leak out into these backwater areas.

  Which was where people like Charles came in.

  “Yeah, well, the Manties aren’t miracle workers,” Miklos said sourly as he picked up the general spec sheet again and began skimming down it. “Where exactly is the memory listing—?”

  “Hell and fury,” Armond cut him off as he slammed down his phone and swiveled in his chair. Grabbing the remote, he tagged the big presentation video screen that took up most of the room’s east wall.

  “What’s the matter?” Miklos demanded.

  “Watch,” Armond growled.

  The screen came to life, showing a scene from somewhere on Manticore. In the center, amid an array of flags and other Manty governmental and military embellishments, was a podium.

  And standing at the podium was Honor Harrington.

  The Honor Harrington.

  Charles felt his mouth drop open. Harrington was dead—he and everyone else in the civilized universe had watched her execution. Yet here she was, thin, drained, and missing an eye and arm, but with the fire and spirit in her voice and face that had made her a legend among even some of the Sollies.

  He grimaced as the obvious explanation belatedly came to him. Yes, he’d seen her execution. But it had been an HD, which had furthermore been provided courtesy of Saint-Just and his State Security thugs.

  Apparently, reports of her death had been greatly exaggerated.

  Surreptitiously, he looked at Armond and Miklos. Both men’s expressions showed the same surprise and disbelief that Charles himself had been feeling a moment ago. But they, too, were rapidly sidling up on the truth.

  And growing rapidly beneath their bewilderment was the hard edge of anger.

  Because they too had undoubtedly watched the hated Harrington’s execution over a year ago. They’d probably had a few drinks to celebrate the event afterwards, and savored that moment during the bitterness of defeat and pullback and more defeat. Now, however the Manties had pulled it off, that small victory had been snatched away from them.

  Even Peeps, Charles mused, must eventually get tired of being lied to by their leaders.

  Armond took a deep breath, coming back from somewhere in an unpleasant distance. He thumbed the remote, and Harrington’s image and speech vanished in midword. “Well,” he said. “Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Events out here never fail to amaze me,” Charles murmured. “At any rate—”

  “Yes,” Armond cut him off. “My apologies, Mr. Dozewah, but I think we’re going to have to end things for today. Can we pick it up again tomorrow morning? Say, around ten o’clock?”

  “Certainly,” Charles said, taking a last sip of his brandy and standing up. “Feel free to look over the documentation. I’d ask that you don’t take the papers out of this building, though.”

  “Of course,” Armond said, reaching across the table for a quick handshake. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Charles started to step away from the table. Then, pretending he’d almost forgotten, he reached over and picked up the Redactor. “I have to take this with me, of course.”

  “Of course,” Armond said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  A minute later Charles was walking down the sidewalk toward his hotel two blocks away, trying to figure out what Harrington’s unanticipated return was going to do to the Manty/Peep war and, more importantly, to Charles’s own sales pitch.

  The most immediate effect would be to put Pierre and Saint-Just into the grandmother of all snits, which was probably why Armond had cut the meeting short. The government would be sending out messages to all their top weapons designers, demanding results now, and Armond was probably trying to figure out what he was going to say when the empty-faced State Security emissaries came calling.

  The real question was whether Armond’s CYA speech would include a mention of Charles and his magic Redactor.

  Maybe he should just cut his losses and get out. He could get a berth on the next liner heading for League space—hell, for anyone’s space—and leave this dirty, grimy, depressing world and its evil people behind him—

  “Charles Dozewah?”

  Charles jerked. The two men had come up behind him, silently and smoothly and professionally. “Yes,” he confirmed cautiously.

  One of the men held out a gold-embossed identity card. “State Security,” he said. “Come with us.”

  Charles looked at the other man. There was something in his stance that said he was hoping for an excuse to get violent. “I’m a citizen of the Solarian League,” Charles protested.

  “Yes, we know,” the first man said. “Come with us.”

  * * *

  They took the Redactor, of course, along with his clothing and jewelry. A full searc
h followed, clearly designed to be as intrusive and humiliating as possible. After that, they gave him a jumpsuit and soft shoes and put him in a private cell about the size of four coffins.

  And for six days they just left him there.

  It was an old technique, of course. The captive was given time to brood and worry about all the possible things his captors might be preparing to do to him.

  Still, there were other, equally ancient techniques that were even worse. These they did not use. They fed him regularly, though the gruel was thin and tasteless. The cell’s sanitary facility at least afforded a modicum of dignity, though accessing it was somewhat challenging in a room where the ceiling was too short for him to stand upright.

  More interestingly, they allowed him a full period of sleep each night, uninterrupted by lights, noises, or rough hands. If Charles didn’t know better, he would think he was being treated like a VIP prisoner.

  He did know better, of course. Whatever forbearance the Peeps might be showing right now on account of his Solly citizenship would take a sharp turn downward the minute they figured out exactly who he was.

  Even that level of courtesy would vanish completely once they figured out what he knew.

  Because Charles knew things. Things that no non-Peep should ever know. Including some things that no one outside of Saint-Just’s own top people should know. If his interrogators found out he knew those things, he would learn just how barbaric the People’s Republic of Haven could be. He had to make sure no one discovered the extent of his hidden knowledge.

  Or else he needed to find a way to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

  It was just after breakfast on the seventh day when his cell was unlocked for the first time and a pair of large dour men hauled him out of his cracker-box kennel and took him down a plain gray corridor to an interrogation room.

  The interrogator was already seated on the far side of a heavy-looking table, his dark gray suit a match for the gray of the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Charles Dozewah?” he asked briskly, his eyes on the papers in front of him as the guards cuffed Charles to an equally heavy wooden chair across from him.