The Shadow of Saganami

Chapter Forty-Eight

Helen knelt on the decksole and slowly, carefully dialed the locker's combination. Aikawa was on duty-the Captain was keeping him there, she knew, because he blamed himself. If he hadn't identified the freighter, none of this would have happened. It was foolish to condemn himself for it, but he did, and the Skipper was too wise to let him sit and brood.

But someone had to do this, and it was Helen's job.

Her hands shook as she gently lifted the lid, and she blinked hard, trying to clear her eyes of the sudden tears. She couldn't. They came too hard, too fast, and she covered her mouth with her hands, rocking on her knees as she wept silently. She couldn't do this. She couldn't. But she had to. It was the last thing she would ever be able to do for her friend… and she couldn't.

She didn't hear the hatch open behind her. She was too lost in her grief. But she felt the hand on her shoulder, and she looked up quickly.

Paulo d'Arezzo looked down at her, his handsome face tight with grief of its own. She stared up into his gray eyes through tear-spangled vision, and he went down into a crouch beside her.

"I can't," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I can't do this, Paulo."

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and her sobs broke free at last. He went fully to his knees, and before she knew what was happening, his arms were around her, holding her. She started to pull away-not from the embrace, but from the humiliation of her weakness. But she couldn't do that, either. The arms around her tightened, holding her with gently implacable strength, and a hand touched the back of her head.

"She was your friend," Paulo said softly into her ear. "You loved her. Go ahead. Cry for her… and then I'll help you do this."

It was too much. It broke her control, and with it her resistance, and she pressed her face into his shoulder and wept for her dead.

Aivars Terekhov walked into the bridge briefing room with a face of battle steel. His blue eyes were hard and cold, and grief-fired rage slept only uneasily behind that azure ice.

Captain Tadislaw Kaczmarczyk followed him into the compartment. The Marine peeled off to take a seat beside Guthrie Bagwell, but Terekhov crossed to the head of the table and took his place, then let his eyes range over the officers gathered around it.

Abigail Hearns looked as if she'd wept, yet there was a calmness, almost a serenity, about her at odds with everyone else in the compartment. There was steel under the serenity, the unyielding and inflexible steel of Grayson, but there was acceptance, too. Not forgiveness for the people who'd murdered her midshipwoman, but the acceptance that to care-to love-was to surrender one's self to the pain of loss… and that to refuse to love was to refuse to live.

Naomi Kaplan showed no acceptance. Not yet. The fury still smoked in her dark brown eyes, hot from hatred's forge. There wasn't enough vengeance in the universe to slake Kaplan's ferocious rage, but enough time hadn't yet passed for her to realize that.

Ansten FitzGerald, Guthrie Bagwell, Ginger Lewis, Tadislaw Kaczmarczyk, and Amal Nagchaudhuri were all, to greater or lesser extent, mirrors of Kaplan.

It was the suddenness of it, Terekhov thought. The stupidity. These people-all of them, even, or especially, Abigail-had seen combat. Had seen people killed. Lost friends. But the incredible, casual speed with which a young midshipwoman, the crew of Hawk-Papa-One, and fifteen Marines had been wiped away before their eyes… That was something else. And all of it had been for absolutely nothing. The man who'd apparently killed them out of panic and terror-induced vengefulness was dead. So were the vast majority of his crew mates.

All for nothing, he thought, remembering Ragnhild's face, all the times she'd piloted his pinnace. Remembering how she'd tried to hide her frustration at the youthfulness of her appearance, her joy when the pinnace gave her wings. Remembering all the incredible promise of the life which had been wiped away as if it had never existed.

No, he told himself, angry with his own thoughts. No, not as if she'd never existed. She did exist. That's why this hurts so much.

"Before I say anything else," he said quietly, "there will be no self-recrimination. If anyone in this ship is to blame for what happened to our people on that pinnace, that person is me. I sent them across, knowing that ship was armed."

People stirred around the table. Most of them looked away. But Abigail Hearns looked straight into his eyes, and shook her head. She said nothing, yet she didn't need to, and somehow Terekhov found himself looking back into her eyes. And then, to his own surprise, he nodded once, accepting her gentle correction.

"Skipper," FitzGerald began, "you couldn't have-"

"I didn't say I made the wrong decision, based on the information we had, Ansten," Terekhov interrupted. "We're Queen's officers. Queen's officers die in the line of duty. And Queen's officers send other people places where they die. Someone had to take that pinnace across, and as I said at the time, only a lunatic would've tried to stop it. One did." He inhaled deeply. "But it was still their job to go, and my job to send them. I did. No one else in this ship did. I will not have any officer-or midshipman-under my command blaming himself for not possessing the godlike power of clairvoyance to predict what was going to happen."

He let his eyes circle the table one more time, and this time all of them looked back at him. He nodded in satisfaction, then flipped his right hand and turned his attention to Kaczmarczyk.

"Tadislaw, suppose you brief everyone on what we've learned so far."

"Yes, Sir." Kaczmarczyk drew his memo pad from the case at his belt and keyed the display alive.

"This vessel belonged to the Jessyk Combine," he began. "Given its construction and outfitting, it clearly falls under the equipment clause of the Cherwell Convention. As such, all members of its crew are legally liable to the death sentence, even without reference to what happened to Hawk-Papa-One. They realize this, and the surviving personnel are falling all over themselves trying to provide sufficient information to buy their lives.

"What we've learned so far-"

Stephen Westman watched the air car settle beside the tent once again.

Maybe I should just leave it permanently set up here, he thought wryly. It'd be a lot less work than constantly putting it up and taking it down again.

The hatches opened and the familiar "guests" climbed out once more. But this time, the midshipwoman wasn't present, and he felt a flicker of surprise.

Greetings were exchanged, and then he, Terekhov, Van Dort, and Trevor Bannister were once again seated around the camp table.

"I have to say this is a surprise," he said. "I sort of figured you'd leave me to stew a mite longer."

"We planned to," Van Dort said. "But something's come up. Something you should know about before you make any decisions."

"Like what?" Westman recognized the hardness that crept into his voice whenever he addressed Bernardus Van Dort. He did his best to restrain it, but a lifetime of hostility couldn't be that readily overcome even by someone who was positive he wanted to overcome it. And Westman remained far from certain he did.

"You may have noticed Ms. Zilwicki isn't with us," Terekhov said, pulling the Montanan's eyes to him. "I've relieved her of all other duties to allow her to deal with the effects of Midshipwoman Pavletic."

Westman stiffened in his chair. He remembered the other midshipwoman. He hadn't met her, the way he had Zilwicki, but some of his… friends in Brewster had managed to get pictures of her when they photographed Terekhov's planeted pinnace, and he remembered the way they'd joked about how young she looked.

"Effects?" he repeated.

"Yes. Ms. Pavletic, the flight crew of her pinnace, and fifteen of my Marines were killed five hours before the Chief Marshal contacted you. Their pinnace was destroyed by an armed merchantship in orbit around Montana."

The Manticoran's voice was crisper than ever, Westman noticed. The words came quickly and sharply, with the honed steel edges of a bowie knife. And then he saw the same steel in the blue eyes regarding him across the table.

"That vessel, Mr. Westman, was here to deliver weapons to you." Westman felt his heart miss a beat, and a sudden, icy chill went through him. "She was squawking the transponder code of a vessel registered as the Golden Butterfly , but her actual name, inasmuch as she had one, was apparently Marianne . She sailed directly from Split, where she'd delivered a sizable consignment of weapons to Ms. Nordbrandt, as arranged by a gentleman going by the name of 'Firebrand' for something called the Central Liberation Committee. Does any of this ring a bell, Mr. Westman?"

"Parts of it," he acknowledged, returning Terekhov's gaze steadily. "If you want me to say I'm sorry to hear about the loss of your people, I am," he continued, hoping the Manticoran heard the sincerity in his voice. "But while I personally had nothing to do with their deaths, I'd point out that it was the threat of open warfare here on Montana that brought you to this star system. I regret the losses you've suffered. I don't apologize for seeking the weapons and equipment I require from someone who willingly offered them to me."

"Ah, yes. The generous and altruistic Mr. Firebrand," Van Dort said. Westman realized that the two off-worlders were double-teaming him. Unfortunately, the recognition didn't make the tactic any less effective.

" Marianne's surviving crew members-there weren't many-were most eager to tell us anything we wanted to know," the Rembrandter continued. "I think you should know what they told us, as well. But before I share that with you, I'd like Trevor to comment on what I'm about to tell you."

Westman looked at Van Dort's brother-in-law. The Chief Marshal looked as if he would have preferred being somewhere else, but his eyes were as steady as ever as he returned Westman's gaze.

"My people sat in on the interrogations, Steve," he said flatly. "I've viewed recordings of the pertinent portions of them. And Captain Terekhov's people got the Marianne's computers pretty much intact. One of the prisoners, an Annette De Chabrol, took down the security protocols so they could access them. The output I've seen so far confirms what the surviving crew members have told us."

Westman looked at him for a few more moments, then nodded slowly. He understood why Van Dort-or Terekhov-had ensured that Bannister would be able to verify the truthfulness, or at least accuracy, of whatever they were about to tell him.

" Marianne ," Van Dort's flat voice reclaimed Westman's attention, "wasn't working for anything called the Central Liberation Committee. To the best of her crew's knowledge, there is no Central Liberation Committee. Marianne was owned and operated by the Jessyk Combine."

Westman felt the sudden shock congealing his features, but there was nothing he could do about it. Jessyk Combine? Impossible!

"The weapons were being delivered to 'resistance groups' in the Cluster on the direct orders of Isabel Bardasano, a cadet member of the Jessyk Board of Directors who specializes in covert operations, 'wet work,' and the transportation of genetic slaves," Van Dort continued implacably. " Marianne was equipped and outfitted as a slaver. She was a slaver, and the survivors of her crew include her commanding officer, who's carried out quite a few 'special operations' for Jessyk over the years. As far as he's aware, this was simply one more."

He stopped. Just like that. He simply stopped talking, sat back in his chair, and looked at Westman across the table.

Westman looked back- stared back-in stunned disbelief. It couldn't be. It couldn't! Why should the Jessyk Combine, one of the worst of the Mesan transstellars, provide weapons to a resistance movement determined to keep all off-worlders off of Montanan soil? It didn't make sense!

And yet…

And yet it did. His jaw clenched as he realized his worst suspicions about Firebrand had fallen far, far short of the truth. Whatever he'd thought he was accomplishing, "Firebrand" and his masters had been using him.

The realization was sickening. But even worse was the question of why they'd done it. He tried desperately to avoid the inevitable conclusion, but his own accursed integrity wouldn't let him. It forced him to look the truth squarely in the eye.

The only reason any Mesan corporation would have helped him keep the Star Kingdom out of Montana was to hold the door open for Frontier Security. If he succeeded in driving Manticore out, it would only be to let Frontier Security-and Mesa-in instead.

"I- " he began finally, only to stop. He cleared his throat. "I didn't know Mesa was involved," he said. "The fact that it was doesn't necessarily mean Manticore wears a white hat-" his eyes flicked to Terekhov's white beret almost against his will, and he snatched them back under control as he continued "-but that's no excuse for dealing with someone like Mesa."

"Mesa may not be the only one you were dealing with, Steve," Bannister said heavily. "According to the bastards aboard that ship, their next port of call wasn't Mesa-it was Monica."

" Monica? " Westman didn't even tried to hide his confusion this time.

"Yep." Bannister nodded. "Monica. Their entire supply mission was staged through 'President' Tyler's little playground. And, as I expect you'll recall, the biggest single customer for Monica's mercenaries is the Office of Frontier Security. So what does that say about the people who were lining up to help you so eagerly?"

"It says," Westman said slowly, "that there's fools and then there's damned fools. And I reckon that this time around, I've been one of the damned fools. And whatever I may think of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, or of Rembrandt, I expect that this time I owe you gentlemen my thanks. If I'd accepted the 'assistance' of scum like that, I'd have slit my own throat when I found out afterward."

"The question, Steve," Bannister said, "is what you're going to do now you have found out. You're a stubborn man, even for a Montanan. Hell, you hold my grudges longer than I do! But it's time you faced the truth, boy. I know you're pissed at Rembrandt for what it's done to Montana. All right, you've got a right to be. I know you're pissed at Bernardus, and I know why. Personally, I reckon we've nursed that particular pet hate long enough Suzanne would be kicking us both in the ass if she were here now. But that's up to you. I'm not going to tell you how to feel about Bernardus as a man. But as Baroness Medusa's representative, I think you'd damned well better listen to what he's saying, because it's the truth, Steve. The truth . The Star Kingdom of Manticore may not be perfect, but it's one damned sight better than anything we're ever going to get out of Frontier Security and somebody like Mesa. Smell the coffee, Steve."

Stephen Westman looked at his oldest friend, and knew-however fiercely he might fight against admitting it-that Trevor was right. He struggled with himself, and with his stubborn, Montanan pride, for endless seconds. Then he inhaled deeply.

"All right, Trevor," he said wearily. "Expect you're right. It just plain goes against the grain to admit I've been that stupid. I don't say I like it. And don't you go expecting me to ever love Manticore or-especially!-Rembrandt. But I'll allow as how neither one of them can hold a candle to what Frontier Security'd do to us. And I will be damned if I'll let myself or my people be used by something like Mesa. Of course, I'll have to talk it over with the boys before we make any hard and fast decisions, you realize."

"You do that. And I expect you might find it a mite easier to talk them around if you mention what Bernardus here negotiated with President Suttles before we came out for this little visit."

Westman looked a question at him, and the Chief Marshal chuckled.

"Old Bernardus may not be up to Ineka Vaandrager's weight as a pure, dyed-in-the-wool bitch, but he's a pretty persuasive negotiator in his own right. He started by saying Rembrandt'll refuse to press charges for the destruction of its enclave here on Montana. He followed that up by telling the President he already had Baroness Medusa's approval of an amnesty offer for all of you on the part of the Star Kingdom if you'd surrender your weapons and give up all this nonsense. And he suggested to the President that if Rembrandt was prepared to forgive you, and Manticore was prepared to forgive you, it might just be he ought to consider exercising his pardoning power to promise you boys amnesty under Montanan law if you lay down your guns."

"Are you serious?" Westman looked at Bannister, then back and forth between him and Van Dort and Terekhov. Bannister only chuckled, and Westman felt his jaw set. "I never asked for any favors, Trevor! I went into this with my eyes open. I'm willing to face the music for what I did!"

"No doubt you are, Mr. Westman," Terekhov said. "I can respect that, even if it does seem just a little stiff-necked even for a Montanan. But however willing you may be to face the music, don't you think you owe it to your men to accept the offer for them? Or, at least, to give them the option?"

Westman glared at him for a few seconds. Then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head wearily.

"Reckon you're right," he sighed. "I reckon you're right."

"So you think he'll come in, Captain Terekhov?" Warren Suttles asked.

"I think he will, Mr. President. On the other hand, I'm not the best judge of the way Mr. Westman's, or any other Montanan's, mind works. No offense, Sir."

"None taken," Suttles said with a smile, and looked at Bannister. "Your opinion, Chief Marshal?"

"Oh, he'll come in, Mr. President," Bannister said confidently. "He'll kick, and he'll whine, and he'll bellyache. And come a few more T-years down the road, he'll point at every little thing that goes wrong and tell me how much better it would've been if he'd only kept Manticore out of our system. But that's Steve. He'll always be crossgrained and ornery as a pseudorattler with a broken tooth. But if he gives you his word, he'll keep it. And when he starts bellyaching down the road, he'll know he's just making a fool out of himself, and it won't bother him a bit."

Suttles' smile turned into a chuckle, and he shook his head.

"If he'll just stop blowing up the planet, I can live with all of that," the President said. "I can even live with how pissed off the rest of the Cabinet's going to be when I announce the amnesty!"