The man who laughed—very big, he was, especially standing in the center of a room looking down at him—laughed again. When he spoke, the words came like actual words instead of thoughts.
“Of course, there isn’t the horde of newscasters waiting at the dock for him that everyone expected. Plenty of them still, needless to say. But half of the Sollie casters are in the Loop, covering what they’re already calling the Second Valentine’s Day Massacre. Good move, Rafe! Everything about your plan was brilliant.”
Usher. That was the man’s name.
He remembered how much he detested that grin. More, even, than the man’s way of laughing.
“Yeah, brilliant. And after the final masterstroke, which—” The man glanced at the door. “—should be coming any moment now, you’ll go down in history as one of the great ops of all time.”
He had been drugged, he suddenly realized. And with that realization came another. He knew the drug itself. He couldn’t remember its technical name, although he knew that it was called the “zombie drug.” It was so easy to use as an aerosol. He remembered thinking that his office had grown a bit muggy, and that he’d intended to speak sharply to the maintenance people. Highly illegal, that drug. As much because it left no traces in a dead body as because of its effects. It broke down extremely rapidly in the absence of oxygenated blood.
There was a knock on the door. Very rapid, very urgent. He heard another voice, speaking through the door. Very rapidly, very urgently.
“Now! They’re about to blow the entrance!” Footsteps, scampering away.
Again, that hated grin.
“Well, there it is, Rafe. Time for you to put the capstone on your career. Just like you foresaw, Manpower saved its real pros for the attack on the embassy. Here they are, raring to go. ’Course, we got Bergren out already, so they’re walking into a massacre. Just like you planned.”
An instant later, he was being lifted like a doll by huge and powerful hands. Now that he was on his feet, he could see the Marines lining the far wall. All of them in battle armor, with pulse rifles ready to hand.
“Such a damn pity that you insisted on leading the ambush yourself, instead of leaving it to the professional soldiers. But you always were a field man at heart. Weren’t you, Rafe?”
He was being propelled to the door. Usher was forcing something into his hand. A gun, he realized. He tried to remember how to use it.
That effort jarred loose his first clear thought.
“Don’t call me Rafe!”
The building was suddenly shaken by a loud explosion and then, a split-second later, by the sound of debris smashing against walls. The shock jarred loose more memories.
This was exactly how I planned it. Except—
Usher was opening the door with one hand, while he shifted his grip onto—
Durkheim! My name’s Durkheim! Citizen General Durkheim!
He heard Manpower’s professionals pouring into the embassy’s great vestibule. He could see the vestibule through the opening door.
There’s not supposed to be anybody here, except Bergren and a squad of Marines. Newbie recruits.
The huge hand holding him by the scruff of the neck tightened. He could sense the powerful muscles tensing, ready to hurl him into the room beyond.
“Don’t call me Rafe!”
“Hero of the Revolution! Posthumous, of course.”
He was sailing into the vestibule. He landed on his feet and stumbled. He stared at the Manpower professionals swinging their pulse rifles. Call them mercenary goons if you would, they were still trained soldiers. Ex-commandos. Hair-trigger reactions.
He was still trying to remember how to use the gun when the hailstorm of darts disintegrated him.
Thereafter
The admiral and the ambassador
Sitting behind his desk, Admiral Edwin Young glared up at the captain standing at attention in front of it.
“You’re dead meat, Zilwicki,” the admiral snarled. He waved the chip in his hand. “You see this? It’s my report to the Judge Advocate General’s office.”
Young laid the chip down, with a delicate and precise motion. The gesture exuded grim satisfaction. “Dead—stinking—meat. You’ll be lucky if you just get cashiered. I estimate a ten-year sentence, myself.”
Standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, Ambassador Hendricks added his own growling words.
“By your insubordinate and irresponsible behavior, Captain Zilwicki, you have managed to half-wreck what should have been our greatest propaganda triumph in the Solarian League ever.” Glumly, the ambassador stared down at the teeming streets and passageways over a mile beneath his vantage point. “Of course, it’ll blow over eventually. And Parnell will be giving his testimony to the Sollie Human Rights Commission for months. But still—”
He turned away, adding his own fierce glare to the admiral’s. The stocky officer who was the object of that hot scrutiny did not seem notably abashed. Zilwicki’s face was expressionless.
“Still!” Hendricks took a deep breath. “We should have been able to start the whole thing with a flourish. Instead—” He waved angrily at the window.
Young leaned forward across his desk, tapping the disk. “Instead, all everyone’s talking about is the so-called Peep–Manpower War. Who wants to watch testimony in a chamber, when the casters can show you a half-wrecked Peep embassy and a completely wrecked Manpower headquarters?” He snorted. “Not to mention the so-called”—his next words came hissing—“ ‘drama’ of Mesa’s slave revenge. With most of their pros gone, Manpower was a sitting duck. Especially with that terrorist Jeremy X on the loose. Christ, they didn’t leave anyone alive over there.”
For the first time since he’d entered the admiral’s office, Captain Zilwicki spoke.
“None of the secretaries in Manpower’s HQ were so much as scratched. Your Lordship.”
The glares were hot, hot. But, still, the officer seemed unconcerned.
“Dead—stinking—meat,” Young repeated, emphasizing each word. He straightened up. The next words came briskly.
“You are relieved of your duties and ordered to report directly to Navy headquarters in the Star Kingdom to account for your actions. Technically, you are not under arrest, but that’s purely a formality. You will remain in your private quarters until such time as the next courier ship is ready to depart. In the meantime—”
“I’ll be leaving immediately, Your Lordship. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
The admiral stumbled to a halt, staring at Zilwicki.
That moment, the admiral’s secretary stuck his head through the door. The admiral had deliberately left the door open, so that the entire staff could overhear his dealings with Zilwicki.
The secretary’s face was a mixture of concern and bewilderment.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Your Lordship, but Lady Catherine Montaigne is here and insists on seeing you immediately.”
The admiral’s frown was one of pure confusion. From the side, the ambassador gave a start of surprise.
“Montaigne?” he demanded. “What in the hell does that lunatic want?”
His answer came from the lunatic herself. The Lady Catherine Montaigne trotted past the secretary and into the room. She bestowed a sunny smile on the ambassador. Her cheerful peasant face clashed a bit with her very expensive clothing.
“Please, Lord Hendricks! A certain courtesy is expected between Peers of the Realm. In private, at least.”
She removed the absurdly elaborate hat perched on her head and fluttered it. “In public, of course, you’re welcome to call me whatever you want.” The smile grew very sunny indeed. “Now that I think about it, I believe I once referred to you as a horse’s ass in one of my speeches.”