Path of the Fury by David Weber
“Okay, ladies, that’s that,” she announced, racking her tools and coiling the testing harness. “Put it back in the closet, please, Megarea.”
A tractor grab lifted the empty armor from the table, then trundled back towards the storage vault, and Alicia followed to make a personal visual check as Megarea’s remotes plugged in the monitoring leads. If she ever actually needed her armor, she was unlikely to have time to repair any faults which had developed since its last maintenance check. Since she didn’t have a spare suit, that meant this one had to be a hundred percent at all times, and the monitors would let Megarea make certain it was.
Tisiphone remarked somewhat acidly as the vault closed.
“Ah, ah! None of that!” Alicia chided, stepping into the small lift. “Tisiphone’s got a point, Megarea. It is time we got started.”
“We don’t have time for me to ‘acclimatize’ as thoroughly as you’d like. Let’s face it—I’m a hopeless disappointment as a starship pilot.”
“No one’s suggesting I shouldn’t continue training, even if I am coming at it backwards. But there’s no reason we can’t do that after we start wherever we’re going to start. And Tisiphone’s right; our information’s getting colder every day.”
“MaGuire, I think. How does that strike you, Tisiphone?”
“I don’t disagree, but I still think we should start at MaGuire.” The lift stopped outside Alicia’s quarters, and she stepped out and sprawled across the comfortable couch. “We’ve got to have some sort of cover before we move in on them for real, and MaGuire’s a good place to begin building one.”
<”Cover”?> The Fury sounded faintly surprised.
“Hey, give her a break, Megarea! She never had to put up with these kinds of limitations before.”
Tisiphone said, and somewhat to Alicia’s surprise, she meant it. The Fury felt her reaction and chuckled dryly.
“I’ve been thinking over all the intelligence you pulled and looking for an angle we could follow up without simply duplicating everyone else’s efforts. It looks to me like Colonel McIlheny’s people are doing a much better job with overt intelligence gathering than we could. He’s got tonnes more manpower and far better communications than we do, and unlike us, he’s official. He doesn’t have to hide from both sides while he works. Agreed?”
Alicia paused, then shrugged as she felt the others’ joint agreement.
“That being the case, let’s leave that side of it to him and concentrate on areas where our special talents can operate most effectively.”
“I was particularly interested in Ben Belkassem’s locked files, because I think he’s on to something. I think he’s right about there being someone on the inside, probably pretty far up, which means that same someone may well be feeding the pirates advance warning on Fleet sweeps and dispositions. If so, they’ll know how and when to lie low, and that suggests Ben Belkassem has also hit on the most likely way to find them.”
“Maybe, but we can probably do a lot more with any information we get our hands—pardon, my hands—on. Ben Belkassem may have more reach, but he can’t get inside someone’s head, and I doubt his computer support can match what you’re capable of. Even better, we’re a complete wild card, with no connection to Justice or Fleet however hard anyone looks. Add all the other things Tisiphone does, and you’ve got a hell of an infiltrator.”
“I think I’m about to become a free trader,” Alicia replied, and felt the others’ stir of interest. “We don’t have much cargo capacity, but half the ‘free traders’ out here are really smugglers, and we can probably match the lift of any of the really fast hulls in the sector. Besides, specializing in delivering small cargoes quickly would make us look nicely shady.”
“Of course they will, but I don’t think you realize quite how talented Megarea is. You can be a regular little changeling, can’t you, Honey Cake?”
Megarea returned promptly.
“Yes, but a spectrograph doesn’t tell them anything about mass or size,” Alicia mused. “Suppose we plan our holo to incorporate a few good-sized chunks of your actual hull and let them get their readings off that?”
“Then since we can look like a suitably decrepit smuggler, the next item on the agenda is to build a believable identity. That’s why I want to start at MaGuire and work our way towards Dewent. Megarea can work up a flight log before MaGuire, Tisiphone, and you can sneak it into the planetary data base when we first contact the port. By the time we dock and they call it up to check our papers, it’ll be ‘official,’ as far as they’re concerned.”
“Perfect!” Alicia chortled. “You and I can make sure the last few entries are suitably vague—the sort of thing a real smuggler would put together to cover an embarrassing situation for a new set of port authorities. It’ll not only get us in with the criminal element but provide a perfect cover against any Fleet units looking for the real us.”
“I doll up to look as little like me as you look like you and start trolling for a cargo. With Tisiphone to run around in the computer nets and skim thoughts, we shouldn’t have too much trouble lining up a less-than-legal shipment headed in the right general direction. Once we deliver it, we’ll have established our smuggler’s bona fides and we can start working our way deeper. In a way, I’d like to head straight from MaGuire for Wyvern—if there’s one place in this sector where those bastards could dispose of their loot, Wyvern’s the one— but we need to build more layers into our cover before we knock on their front door. Still, once we get there, I’m betting we find at least some sign of their pipeline, and when we do, we can probably find someone whose thoughts can tell us where to find them.”
“Can’t be helped, unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Yeah, the only thing that really bothers me is losing the Bengal.” Alicia signed. “The cargo shuttle won’t be a problem once we get rid of the Fleet markings and change the transponder, but nobody could mistake that Bengal for anything but an assault boat.”
“It’s not exactly standard free trader issue,” Alicia objected, but she heard temptation waver in her own voice.
Tisiphone chuckled.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Alicia’s mouth twitched and her eyes twinkled at the thought. And, she admitted, it was a great relief, as well. “Let’s think up some incredibly gaudy paint job to hang on it, in that case. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
Chapter Fifteen
James Howell watched the view screen as the shuttle slid up from just beyond the terminator, glittering as it broke into the unfiltered light of Hearthguard’s primary, and tried not to show his uneasiness.
Hearthguard was a sparsely populated world, for it had little—aside from truly spectacular mountain landscapes and particularly dangerous fauna—to attract settlers. Visitors, now, those were another matter. To date, Hearthguard’s wildlife had accounted for about one hunter in five, which, humans being humans, produced a predictably perverse response that amused the locals no end. And it was profitable, too. If putatively sane outworlders wanted to pay hefty fees for the dubious privilege of hunting predators who were perfectly willing to hunt them right back, that was fine with the Hearthguarders. But even though more and more of their guests were imperial citizens, the life-blood of their new, tourism-based prosperity, theirs was a Rogue World, independent of the Empire and minded to stay so.
Thrusters flared as the shuttle swam towards rendezvous with the freighter. Howell would have felt far happier in his flagship, but Hearthguard was too heavily traveled to take such a risk. On the other hand, this meeting had the potential to dwarf the dangers of bringing in the entire squadron. If anyone was watching, or if word of it leaked. . . .
The shuttle coasted to a halt, and tractors drew it in against one of the freighter’s racks. Howell watched the personnel tube jockeying into position, then sighed and turned toward the lift with squared shoulders.
It was time to hear what Control had to say to him. He did not expect to enjoy the conversation.
The commodore reached the personnel lock just as a tallish man in camping clothes stepped out, fiercely trimmed mustachios jutting. Despite its obvious comfort and sturdiness, his clothing was expensive, and his squashed-looking hat’s band was decorated with at least a dozen bent, shiny wires tied up with feathers, mirrors, and God alone knew what. The first time he’d seen them, Howell had assumed they were solely decorative; only after a fair amount of research had he discovered they were lures for an arcane sport called “fly-fishing.” It still struck him as a stupid way for a grown man to spend his time, though Hearthguard’s two-meter saber-trout probably made the sport far more interesting than it had been in its original Old Earth form.
He moved forward to greet his visitor, and winced at the other’s bone-crushing handshake. Control had a rather juvenile need to demonstrate his strength, and Howell had learned to let him, though he did wish Control would at least take off his Academy ring before he crushed his victims’ metacarpals.
“I thought we’d use my cabin, sir,” he said, managing not to wave his hand about as he reclaimed it at last. “It’s not much, but it’s private.”
“Fine. I don’t expect to be here long enough for austerity to be a problem.” Control’s voice was clipped, with a trace of the Mother World, though Howell knew he’d never visited Old Earth before reporting to the Academy. The commodore pushed the thought aside and led the way down a corridor which had been sealed off for the duration of Control’s visit. No more than a score of the squadron’s personnel knew who Control was, and Rachel Shu went to considerable lengths to keep it that way.
Howell’s cabin—the freighter captain’s cabin, actually—was more comfortable than his earlier comment had sugges
The commodore obeyed the gesture with outward calm, sitting back and crossing his legs. He had no delusions. Control’s personal visit suggested that he was going to tear at least one long, bloody strip off him, but Howell was damned if he was going to look uneasy. He’d done his best, and the losses at Elysium hadn’t been his fault, whatever Control might intend to say.
Control let him sit in silence for several moments, then leaned back and inhaled sharply, bristling his waxed mustache even more aggressively.
“So, Commodore. I suppose you know why I’m here?” Howell recognized his cue and offered the expected response.
“I imagine it has something to do with Elysium.”
“It does, indeed. We’re not happy about that disaster, Commodore Howell. Not happy at all. And neither are our backers.”
His gray eyes were hard, but Howell refused to flinch. He also refused to waste time defending himself until specific charges were leveled, and he returned Control’s gaze in composed silence.
“You had perfect intelligence, Commodore,” Control resumed when it became obvious Howell had nothing to say. “We handed you Elysium on a silver platter, and you not only lost three-quarters of your ground element, but you also managed to lose five cargo shuttles, a Leopard-class assault boat, four Bengals . . . and a million-tonne battle-cruiser. And to top it all off, you didn’t even secure your objective. Tell me, Commodore, were you born incompetent, or did you have to work at it?”