An Honorable Defense Book 1 Crisis of Empire Read online

  “Ahh, and that reminds me.” About the security report, Bertingas prompted silently. “About the report on security—you are working on it?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve given thought to the composition of our fast-reaction force, haven’t you? I thought we could make good use of some of the alien population. Here on Palaccio and elsewhere in the Cluster, perhaps.”

  “Why, that was our—my—thought exactly! The dole Humans are too unreliable, unmotivated. However, the guest species—”

  Praise was nodding, all but the eyes. “Some of them do look very efficient, with excellent reflexes and, um, physically powerful.”

  “Yes, and with the right approach—”

  “How do you feel about aliens, by the way?” There was a hook in that question, somewhere. Bertingas could sense it.

  “I suppose I like them. Well enough. I don’t know that many of them. Or not all that well.”

  “You have no residual phobias, do you?”

  “No, no. Quite the contrary . . . I think some of them get treated very badly, especially on the agricultural holdings. The Zergliedern system applied to labor gangs, for example, is—”

  “Zerglee—?”

  “Punitive dismemberment, sometimes disfigurement, for infractions of house rules. It started just with the species who had fast regenerative powers, but I’ve heard of cases where a symbiotic personality got severed. That’s sadistic—and too brutal for any Human civilization.”

  “Ah, well, now. We can’t change the world, can we? But I don’t suppose you have many aliens in the Communications Department. Not above the solid brain level, anyway . . .”

  “One or two,” Bertingas said. “There are limited opportunities in our field, what with this Cluster being so heavily demographed to the Human.”

  “Yes, exactly.” That nod again. “It almost reminds me of Central Center. Not a lot, but in some ways . . .”

  “About the plan, then, you would pre-approve using—and arming—aliens?”

  “Of course. I suggested it, didn’t I? And you should take your original estimates and quintuple them. We’ll move right into training cadres with twenty percent of the first inductees. Get me estimates on your requirements for barracks space and material. We’ll fund this out of your program planning budget, to start with.” A grim smile. “That’s usually over-allocated in an operation like this.”

  “If you say so, Sir. Quintuple—that’s a lot—”

  “Don’t worry about where the bodies will come from. We’ll draw levies from the latifundists, if we have to.” A dry chuckle. “You’ll make the primary contacts and recruiting arrangements, yes?”

  “I have an assistant who would be better—”

  “I’m sure you have a whole platoon of mother’s little helpers down there, but I want you to handle this yourself. Ponimayesh? If nothing else, it will get you familiar with the quality of troops you’ll, um, command.” Another chuckle, which Bertingas didn’t like. “Now parallel your AID with the desk here. I have some contacts for you.”

  Bertingas set his unit on the contact studs and it handshook with Praise’s artificial intelligence. The Director tapped in a dump code on his deskpad and the two AIDs duplicated certain memories. There wasn’t much to file: their transfer was over in a fraction of a second.

  “You have two names there.” Praise must be reading minds this morning. “One is a gentleman of the warrens here in Meyerbeer. The other has a following, of sorts, in the rural precincts. From all reports, they should be able to help you.”

  “I may have to bargain for good-quality trooper stock. Even offer them individual inducements. What’s our upper limit?”

  “Oh . . .”A shrug. “Tell them whatever you like. Whatever you think they’ll accept. Of course, if the governor decides she can’t support it, she’ll hang you out to dry like a hankie.” More chuckles. “Fair enough?”

  “Ahh . . . I guess.”

  “Good. Then you have your work cut out for yourself, don’t you—Commander?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Praise was, of course, being ironic. He had no more authority to hand out Central Fleet commissions than Bertingas did to make his recruits Pact citizens. Still, the implications—would it be fun to play at soldier? For a week or so? Somewhere, of course, where the glass beads weren’t flying . . .

  Bertingas gave a mock-sloppy salute and turned on his heel. As he heel-and-toed across the carpeting, Praise called out to him.

  “By the way, Commander.”

  Tad turned. “Yes?”

  “No Cernians.”

  “Cernians?”

  “Yes . . . You know: little fellows, green skin, bad eyesight, worse breath. Don’t take ’em.”

  Now that was strange. “Why not, Sir?”

  “Call it a whim. Say my sources indicate their loyalties are not above suspicion. Whatever. But . . .”

  “No Cernians.” Bertingas shrugged. “Whatever you want.” He walked quietly from the office.

  As he stepped into the drop tube’s retarding field, he felt his thoughts rise in a jumble—along with his stomach.

  They were thoughts of Selwin Praise, and when they settled again Bertingas had a pattern: the cold, grinning superiority; the cat-and-mouse conversations, with their hooks; the obscure whims and jealousies. The man reeked of secrets. Halan Follard was right. Praise was a Kona Tatsu agent, definitely, and this preoccupation with security forces was either a smokescreen or a deeply veiled plan.

  Where did Taddeuz Bertingas’ advantage lie? In playing along, just following orders? Or in dragging his feet, sabotaging the effort? Should he tell Follard about his guesses? And was the Department really in danger? How did the Haiken Maru assassination attempt—for that’s how he thought of it—how did that fit in? Would the firepower of a regiment of alien fanatics have helped him any in that aircar crash?

  Down in the ninety-ninth floor’s tiled tube bay, Bertingas was brought up short. The bodyguard was waiting for him at exactly the spot he’d left her. He might have expected Firkin to be sitting on the bench there, working a puzzle, doing some knitting, reading a book, but no. She stood roughly at attention, or maybe just at ready. Waiting for—what?—half an hour while he was topside with Praise. Once again Bertingas asked himself if this wide person was exactly Human. If not, then a squad of her phenotype would be worth a legion of bubble-fingered agricultural workers.

  She fell into waddling step beside him as he left the bay.

  “Firkin, what do you know about the Cernians?”

  “Trolls, Sir?” In that flat rumble. “Or that’s what some call them. They aren’t exactly in the Pact. Well, there’s a lot of bugs that aren’t. But these Cernians have their own little cluster, about five worlds, outside the Pact. Who knows what they might have built it into, if they hadn’t met the Pact coming the other way.”

  “Are they warlike?”

  “Not particularly. Just hard to kill.”

  That appraisal, coming from a body as solid and tough as Firkin’s, made the Cernians seem indestructible.

  “Are they friendly, then? Say, with any political force inside the Pact?”

  “Rumors, Sir.” Firkin shrugged.

  “What do they say?”

  “That the Cernians are mixed pretty deep in Harmony Cluster. General—now Governor—Merikur seems to have them under his spell. Or they him. Hard to tell, at this distance.”

  “Just rumors, eh?”

  “That’s all I hear, Sir.”

  They walked side by side up to Tad’s office, then Firkin pushed ahead. To check out this most familiar room.

  Gina was nowhere in sight, neither in the office nor at her cubicularium. Any sign of their encounter this morning—scuff marks on the floor, the silvery tearstains—had been removed.

  Bertingas found her AID, which she’d named Squeaker, sitting on her desk. It was talking to itself in alien whispers. He left a verbal message for her with it, giving Praise’s approval of their plan t
o use aliens for the strike force. He also relayed the Director’s order to quintuple their original estimates—whatever those might be. So Gina should think big in her planning. He then told her he was going back to his apartment, to change out of his ruined uniform and perhaps take the rest of the day off-.

  And that was about all there was to say. Except . . .

  “Oh, and Squeaker—tell her I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  Chapter 6

  Patty Firkin: ALARUMS AND DIVERSIONS

  “All right, Firkin. Let’s go.”

  Bertingas walked out of his assistant’s cube and waved at Patty in his offhand way. He was like an overgrown boy: by turns helpless and tyrannical. It was becoming tiresome.

  She went with him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to my apartment.”

  Now that was a problem. If this young potato was still as hot as Patty figured, going to his published place of residence was not a bright idea. The people who had botched the out-of-control aircar would probably have thought of something else by this time.

  “May I suggest, Sir, that . . .”

  “Later. It’s been a long day and I’m still wearing this stinking uniform. I want to change, get a hot bath, maybe a massage—you don’t give massages, do you?”

  “No, Sir.

  “Then a drink or three and dinner. Do you eat dinner, Firkin?”

  “When it’s offered, Sir.” She couldn’t resist a small smile.

  At the tube, he started to step into the levitator. Patty put a hand on his arm. “Up, Sir?”

  “Of course. I’ve signaled for my car.”

  And given someone the notice and lead time to set all sorts of surprises . . .

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to use the streets?”

  “All the way out to the Satellite Villas?”

  “Well, it’s just, ah, not as far to fall.”

  “I see. Then you lead, Firkin.”

  She walked into the drop tube and pointed her toes: it made the trip marginally faster. She felt the pillow-plump sound of him entering the tube above her. They dropped amid the whisper-crackle of energy discharge.

  At the ground floor, she had to show him where the street doors were. Was it possible he had never entered the building this way? No, his dossier said he’d started in the basement on the archival system. Perhaps this floor was recently remodeled. Were the tatsu-wardens still in place, then?

  Out on the avenue, they bucked the flow of walkers, gawkers, and street hawkers that mingled and moved around the maglev stop. When a car came through going west, Bertingas looked both ways, shrugged, and waved her aboard. The car glided off on its suspensors along the ceramic beam twelve feet above the street’s median strip.

  Bertingas hooked his elbow into the strap like he was used to riding the ’rail. They were pressed by the crowd between two Humans in half-piped General Services uniforms and a Clotilden with a metal snake grafted to its cervical collar. The snake looked like business.

  “Do you work for Halan?” Bertingas asked.

  Now, how much did he know about Follard? The Kona Tatsu Inspector General had suggested they were casual friends. Could she fool this petty bureaucrat? For how long?

  “Not directly,” she answered evasively.

  “Are you a freelance, then?”

  “Free—? You mean a mercenary? It’s something like that.”

  “How good are you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Got any references?”

  There was more than boyish challenge in his eyes. Patty remembered that this was the dude who had brought down a stalled aircar from seven klicks over the Palace and avoided killing anyone. Not even himself . . . Except for the driver. With her chin she worked back the jumper’s wide sleeve on her strap arm. Far enough to show him the red line.

  “So, you have a regraft,” he said, after a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean? Other than you were clumsy—and lucky enough to lose it on the doorstep of a full med-ops. Where did it happen?”

  “Battle of Carmel-Chi.”

  “Oh . . . You were—outside?”

  “With First Drop, II Corps.”

  She could read the thoughts behind his depthless stare. II Corps Marines was the unit that had lasted through all ninety-six hours of the siege at Carmel Base. Toward the end, they were valving off their suits and vacuum-freezing pieces of themselves to ration the remaining pressure. Her squad had accepted the citadel’s surrender on their knees and elbows. The only good thing you could say was, the defenders were in worse shape.

  “I see, unh—Sergeant?”

  “Colonel.”

  The monorail car floated out through the Embassy District to what, in Meyerbeer, on Palaccio, passed for suburbs. Each of the Satellite Villas was a discrete structure, although it was clearly meant to look more like the cluster-hutch of a Neapolitan hill neighborhood. Terraces, tiled roofs, airpads, window walls, and garden patches lay atop and beside one another like scales patterned on a snakeskin. The trick, architecturally, was that the building seemed to have more outsides than insides. Any student of solid geometry will tell you that, as an object grows in size, its volume expands faster than its surface area. The genius who designed the Villas found a way to reverse that.

  The building, Patty knew, was hollow. Its interior grotto was faced with a reverse array of terraces and windows. Water was the theme: a fountain at the center fed a pumped stream, livening the space with dancing reflections and brook sounds. Sunlight came down from that mirror array near the ridgeline. Yes, the inside was nicer, in a controlled way, than the outside.

  As the car neared S.V. IV, Bertingas started to tell her this was his stop, but Patty was already moving toward the door. She led him in through the Villa’s main lobby, beside the recovery pool for the inside stream. They took the lift tube up to Concenter Three, which was Bertingas’ level. By that time, he was no longer trying to lead her, just following. As she had planned.

  They were on the outside now, moving along a twisting garden path above one householder’s windows and below another’s terrace. Patty took out her AID and queried it subvocally.

  “Trouble, Colonel,” it told her through the bone implant.

  “How big?”

  “Fifty-point-nine kilos.”

  “Body temperature?”

  “Thirty-seven-point-two Celsius.”

  “Is that estimated or actual reading?”

  “Would I lie to you? She’s been there an hour, so her temp’s adjusted to the room. Tell your boyfriend he keeps his ’cycler too low. It’s freezing in there. The lady’s got her coat on, and he’ll soon be wishing she’d taken it off.”

  “How do you know she’s female?”

  “Men don’t walk on five-centimeter stilettos, do they? Makes a real clatter on the parquet.”

  “All right. Is she armed?”

  “Yeah, two of them.”

  “Weapons, you wiseguy.”

  “Got a chunk of ferrous-something in her pocket that masses close to a kilo. Maybe she collects meteorites. But if it throws beads, look out for big ones.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want her stunned or stone cold?”

  “Neither, right away. Will she startle badly if we walk in?”

  “Yeah. Pulse and respiration say she’s on the edge of something pretty crude.”

  “Okay, we’ll tippy-toe.”

  “Are you talking to Halan?” Bertingas asked over Patty’s shoulder.

  “No,” she said. “Just doing some reconn.”

  “Of my apartment?”

  “Sure. You’ve got a visitor.”

  “Unh—that’s not possible. This is very expensive living quarters. The security system alone costs—”

  “More than it’s worth. Big puppydog. When I went through this morning, it rolled over on its back and begged to be scratched. With the right fingers, that is.”

  “You were in my apartment this morning?”<
br />
  She watched him work the timing out in his head. “Since that crash at the Palace?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Oh, well then . . .” Lie accepted. Advantage Kona Tatsu.

  “Do you have any girlfriends?”

  “That’s a little direct. Are you suggesting—?”

  “The body in there displays female. Anybody you’d be expecting?”

  “Human female?”

  So that was his deep and dirty secret, hey? “Yes, Human or masked to pass for one.”

  “Then no.”

  “All right. We’ll go in casual. Like we own the place.”

  “I do—remember?”

  “Just let me lead. Unless you’re wearing body armor.”

  He shook his head. “By all means, lead.” She could feel his eyes reappraising her singlesuit and the shape of her flesh beneath it.

  She might use the expensive sound system—twoofers, bleeters, floor amps, thousand-watt dazzlers, and a neural synthesizer—which she’d found in the apartment that morning and linked to her AID, for communicating with the woman inside. Patty decided against it. If the quarry was a friend of Bertingas’s, then a sudden order issued by the walls for her to walk out with hands locked on top of her head would only confuse and frighten her. And if she was a professional, it would just tip her off. A dose of subsonics, however . . .

  “Listen,” she growled to the AID.

  “Always, my sweet.”

  “Switch on the audio system in there—real quietly, and no twinkle lights, if you can. Give me a sine wave at ninety Hertz on those big subwoofers. Start it below forty deeBee and raise it, gradually, over about thirty seconds to 110. Then pulse the loudness, real fast, over that range.”

  “May I point out that the Human ear does not hear clearly at that range.”

  “No, but sphincters and bowels do.”

  She caught a gleam in Bertingas’ eyes.

  “Beginning procedure,” the AID said dutifully.

  They crouched on the doorstep, huddled out of the greeter system’s line of sight. Patty drew her repulsor, checked the charge and the load. After forty-five seconds, she told him: “Key the door.”

  He hit the latch.

  She struck the heavy oak panel with her shoulder and ricocheted diagonally across the foyer, flying horizontally about a foot above the simulated flagstones. Landing on her hip, one knee, and an elbow, partly concealed by the foot of the archway into the lounge room, she swept a sixty-degree field of fire.