He straightened up the living room, then skinned out of his comfortable old shirt and faded trousers and pulled on a good Terran silk shirt and a pair of dress slacks. He puttered in the kitchen, setting out glasses, a plate of cheese and fruit, a pitcher of ice-cold herbal tea that Yalena had introduced him to, displacing his former favorite beverage by a wide margin. When the chime sounded, he opened the door to find Sheila Brisbane, tall and trim in her dress-scarlet uniform, and a middle-aged man with the small stature and light build typical of Vishnu’s largest ethnic group.
“Hello, Simon,” Sheila greeted him with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, again. This is Sahir Tathagata, Deputy Minister of Military Intelligence. Sahir, Colonel Simon Khrustinov.”
“Retired,” Simon added, shaking Mr. Tathagata’s hand and wondering why an active-status Bolo captain and a Deputy Minister of Military Intelligence wanted to talk to him on such urgent notice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Colonel,” the deputy minister said quietly. Simon realized the words weren’t just a social greeting. He meant it.
“Come in, please,” Simon gestured them into the apartment.
“Is Yalena here?” Sheila asked, seating herself in one corner of Simon’s sofa while he brought in the tray from the kitchen.
“No, she’s on campus. She’ll be gone most of the evening.”
Sheila Brisbane, who was aware of Yalena’s interest in training for combat, met and held Simon’s gaze. “You’re sure she’ll be out the whole evening?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What’s gone wrong?”
She frowned slightly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe a whole lot. We’re hoping to find out which,” she added glancing at the deputy minister.
Simon settled into his favorite chair and disposed himself to listen. “Shoot.”
Sahir Tathagata spoke first. “I’m given to understand that you’re in touch with someone on Jefferson? On a fairly regular basis?”
“I am,” he allowed cautiously. “I still have family there.”
“Your late wife’s family?”
“That’s right.”
Simon flicked a brief glance at Sheila, wondering how much she suspected. She returned that brief, penetrating glance with a cool, reserved gaze, just as any Brigade officer worth his or her salt would have done. Giving away very little while observing a great deal was part of an officer’s training.
“It is our belief,” the deputy minister said in an equally careful, neutral voice, “that President Santorini has implemented a systematic campaign of censorship on all communications into and out of Jefferson.” He paused, waiting for Simon’s reaction.
Simon weighed the odds, the risks, and allowed a brief, bitter smile to steal across his face. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Then you are aware of the political situation?”
“Oh, yes.”
Sahir Tathagata considered him for a long, silent moment, as if trying to reach a decision of his own. Simon offered him neither help nor hindrance, waiting quietly while the deputy military intelligence minister sorted through his impressions of Simon and weighed them against what he knew — and what he didn’t know, as well. He came to a decision and said, “Vittori Santorini has contacted my government with a request to hire a team of engineers and technicians from our warfare technology center. They specifically want a team capable of repairing a Bolo. And they want spare parts. A literal shipload of spare parts. For a Bolo Mark XX. Munitions are on that list, too. It’s a big list and they are willing to pay top money. They want the technicians and the rest of it shipped out by special courier, not on the next freighter scheduled to make the Vishnu-Mali-Jefferson run. They’re willing to pay for that, too.”
“My God,” Simon whispered. “Sweet Jesus, what are they doing out there?” A cold shiver touched his spine. Simon was altogether too worried that he knew the answer — and he already didn’t like it.
Sahir Tathagata favored him with a wintry little smile. “We’re rather hoping you could tell us that.”
Simon held the deputy minister’s gaze. “You and I both know that Sonny shouldn’t be racking up damage of any kind, let alone something serious enough to hire a team of weapons specialists.” Simon forced himself to sit back, relaxing one muscle group at a time while wondering where Tathagata was going with this, and why. Simon was not a citizen of Vishnu. Neither was Yalena. If Tathagata had decided to investigate the arms purchases Simon had been involved in, over the last few years, he and Yalena might well find themselves on the next tramp freighter heading out of the Ngara system.
Or in jail.
On the other hand, if Vishnu’s leaders were half as worried about their neighbor’s intentions as Simon would’ve been, in their shoes, they might just take advantage of his clandestine network. “Suppose you tell me what you know?” Simon suggested, trying to assess which way Tathagata — and Sheila Brisbane — seemed likely to jump.
Sheila was an active officer of the Brigade, with wide latitude to investigate misconduct. Simon was retired, but if the Brigade didn’t share his views on what Jefferson’s government was doing, he could find himself in hot water ten different ways from Sunday. Sheila held his gaze with a steady strength that seemed, to Simon, to convey reassurance. His instinct, honed over years of battlefield command, was telling him that neither Sheila nor the deputy minister intended taking any adverse action against him. Not at the moment, at any rate.
Tathagata said, “We don’t know a great deal. What we do know is cause for alarm. At Captain Brisbane’s suggestion, we started back-tracking all of Jefferson’s major purchases from Mali and Vishnu over the past twenty or so years. Before the war and for a short time afterwards, Jefferson’s imports fell into two main groups. High-tech equipment for civilian use and purchases from our weapons labs, updating and replenishing the planetary defense arsenal. The Deng hit Jefferson far harder than Mali or Vishnu, thanks in large part to your timely warning.”
Simon inclined his head at the implicit compliment.
“Once Vittori Santorini’s party came to power, however, the pattern shifted.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Simon muttered. “I tried to trace their off-world money, but I didn’t have a lot of success. The Santorinis are smart. Dishonest as the day is long, but clever as sin and twice as dangerous. What in particular did they order?”
“High-tech surveillance equipment. Sophisticated military hardware. Biotech weapons—”
Simon sat bolt upright. “What?”
Tathagata’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “War agents, Colonel Khrustinov. Biological war agents. And several thousand barrels of key components required to cook more of their own.”
Simon thought about the struggle underway on Jefferson and went cold to his toes. “Dear God…”
Sheila Brisbane, eyes crackling with suppressed anger, said, “You haven’t heard the half of it yet, Simon.”
“Tell me,” he said, voice grim.
The pattern was coldly horrifying. The greater Santorini’s consolidation on power, the more off-world technology he had imported to hold onto that power. By the time Tathagata finished his recitation, Simon was ready to step onto the next interstellar transport headed toward Jefferson and assassinate the leadership of POPPA at any and all risk.