"The second reason's just as important," he continued. "Normally, we'd lean on the Ballroom for anything like this. But with what we know now, from the Ronald Allen incident, we can't do that. I doubt if Manpower has been able to get very many agents to penetrate the Ballroom or Torch government offices—but it seems almost certain that however many such agents there are, all of them will have assassinating the Queen as one of their top priorities."
He paused, waiting for Hugh—forcing Hugh, rather—to agree or disagree.
Since the answer was obvious, Hugh nodded. "No argument there. And your conclusion is . . . ?"
"Obvious, it seems to me. We need to pull together a security team that's completely outside the Ballroom and doesn't depend on using genetic ex-slaves."
Hugh saw a possible beam of light.
"Well, in that case, I need to remind you I'm a genetic ex-slave, so that would seem—"
"Cut it out!" That was as close to a roar as Hugh had ever seen coming from Jeremy. The man's normal and preferred style was whimsical, not ferocious.
Jeremy glared at him. "You don't count, and the reason's obvious—and you know it. I can vouch for you since the age of five, and if I can't be trusted we're all screwed anyway since I'm the be-damned Secretary of War! Let's not go crazy, here. But even with you in charge, I still want the rest of the team to be from Beowulf."
Even while he'd been raising his objections, Hugh's mind had been chewing on the problem. On a second track, so to speak. He hadn't needed Jeremy to explain to him the advantages of using a security team that had no pre-existing ties to Torch or the Ballroom. That had been obvious, from the outset. And the solution to that problem was just as obvious—if it could be done at all.
"The best way to handle it would simply be to have the BSC assign me and my team to Torch."
Jeremy nodded. "Finally! The lad's thinking clearly."
Web Du Havel looked from one to the other. "I didn't have the impression BSC teams specialized in security."
Hugh and Jeremy smiled simultaneously. "Well, they don't. As such," said Jeremy. "It's rather like my own expertise on the subject. What you might call, developed from the inside out. Or the outside, in."
Web rolled his eyes. "In other words, you don't have a clue about security procedures except how to get around them."
"Pretty much," said Hugh. "Leaving me aside—I do have a lot of security training and experience—the skills of my team are what you might call those of the OpForce. But that's plenty good enough, Web. And since they're completely out of the loop in terms of Torch or the Ballroom—and I can vouch for each and every one of them—we don't have to worry that we've been penetrated."
"That still leaves the problem that whatever method is being used in these latest assassinations and assassination attempts might be able to circumvent everything."
Hugh shook his head. "I don't believe in magic, Jeremy, and neither do you. I think Manpower's behind all this, myself, although I'd admit that may just be my pre-existing bias. Still, whatever the method is, it smacks of some sort of biological technique. Except for Beowulf—and not even Beowulf, in some areas—Manpower has the greatest biological expertise in the galaxy. But regardless of who's behind it, that means it can be thwarted, once we figure out how they're doing it. Whoever 'they are.' And in the meantime . . ."
His tone got very grim. "I can think of at least one method that'll provide Berry with security even while we're in the dark. She won't like it, though."
Web looked a bit alarmed. "If it involves cloistering her, Hugh, you may as well forget it. Even as comparatively amenable as she is right now, because of the death of Lara and the others, there's no way Berry will agree to living like a recluse."
"That's not what I was thinking of—although whether she likes it or not, she's going to have to be sequestered a large part of the time. That doesn't mean she won't be able to move around at all, just . . . Call it security by extreme ruthlessness. But I know Berry well enough already to know she'll have a hard time accepting the procedures I'd set up."
Somewhere in the course of the last minute or so, Hugh realized he'd made up his mind. He found it simultaneously intriguing and disturbing that the key factor had been nothing more sophisticated than an intense desire to keep a certain Berry Zilwicki alive.
Perhaps because the thought was unsettling, he went back to glaring at Jeremy. "Of course, this is almost certainly a moot point, since I can't think of any reason the BSC would agree to any of this. Detaching an entire combat team to serve a foreign nation, for an unspecified but probably long stretch of time? You're dreaming, Jeremy."
Now it was Jeremy and Du Havel who smiled simultaneously. "Why don't you let us worry about that," said Web. "Perhaps we can manage something."
"Sure," said Princess Ruth. "Do you want me to make the recording for my parents as well as my aunt? I'd recommend including my mom and dad. Aunt Elizabeth would get peeved if anyone said it right out loud, but the truth is that my father can usually wheedle anything out of her. And since any security measures that protect Berry are likely to spill over onto me, he'll probably wheedle pretty good."
Web and Jeremy looked at each other. "Whatever you think, Ruth. You're the expert here."
"Okay, then." Ruth pursed her lips. "Now . . . I've got to figure out what would work best. Teary-eyed or sternly-insistent-just-short-of-filial-disrespect. Is 'filial' the right word, when you're a daughter?"
"Why are you so certain Manticore can bring enough influence to bear on Beowulf?" Jeremy asked later.
"There are at least four reasons I can think of," replied Web. "The simplest of which is that even though you've spent a lot of time around Beowulfers, I don't think you really grasp the depth and relentlessness of the enmity Beowulf's elite has for Manpower. For them, in some ways even more than for ex-slaves like ourselves, this war is profoundly personal. A grudge match, you might say."
"That all happened centuries ago, Web. Over half a millennium. Who can hold a personal grudge that long? I don't think I could even do it, and I'm a well-known fanatic."
Web chuckled. "There are at least eight projects on Beowulf that I know of which are studying evolutionary effects, every one of which was started within five years of the first settlement of the planet—almost one thousand, eight hundred years ago. At a certain level of dedication, biologists aren't really sane."
He shook his head. "But leave that aside. One of the other reasons is that Manticore can bring a lot of pressure to bear on Beowulf. Call it influence, rather. And vice versa, of course. The relations between those two star nations are a lot closer than most people realize."
Jeremy still looked a bit dubious. But he didn't pursue the matter any further. This, after all, was Web Du Havel's area of expertise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The warship which emerged from the Trevor's Star terminus of the Manticore Wormhole Junction did not show a Manticoran transponder code. Nor did it show a Grayson or an Andermani code. Nonetheless, it was allowed transit, for the code it did display was that of the Kingdom of Torch.
To call the vessel a "warship," was, perhaps, to be overly generous. It was, in fact, a frigate—a tiny class which no major naval power had built in over fifty T-years. But this was a very modern ship, less than three T-years old, and it was Manticoran built, by the Hauptman Cartel, for the Anti-Slavery League.
Which, as everyone understood perfectly well, actually meant it had been built for the Audubon Ballroom, before its lapse into respectability. And this particular frigate—TNSPottawatomie Creek—was rather famous, one might almost have said notorious, as the personal transport of one Anton Zilwicki, late of Her Manticoran Majesty's Navy.