The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“We need a full shipping schedule as soon as possible,” Falkenberg said. “All space traffic from now through the end of the year.”

“Of—of course, Colonel. But you know not all traffic is scheduled—”

“Yes, of course,” Falkenberg said impatiently.

Captain Rottermill frowned and reached under the table for his briefcase.

“I’ll send you a copy of everything we have at the moment. If you’ll wait just a moment. It’ll take a few minutes to search the files.”

Rottermill set his briefcase on the table in front of him and lifted out a small plastic box. He pressed a switch on it and placed it facing Falkenberg’s speaker-phone.

“We can wait,” Falkenberg said. He glanced at Rottermill and raised one eyebrow. Rottermill nodded curtly.

“Colonel, the computers are doing odd things with the data base,” Ann Chang said. “Let—let me call you back, please.”

Falkenberg glanced at Rottermill. The intelligence officer nodded again. “Very well,” Falkenberg said. “We really do need that schedule. We’ll wait for your call.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Ann Chang said. “It’ll be just a few minutes. I appreciate your patience—”

“Not at all. Goodbye.” Falkenberg punched the off button, looked to make sure the connection was broken, and looked back to Rottermill. “Well?”

Rottermill turned the Voice Stress Analyzer so that Falkenberg could see the readout. A line of X’s reached far into the red zone. “Colonel, she’s scared stiff.”

“What put you onto her?” Ian Frazer asked.

Rottermill shrugged. “Do enough interrogations and you get a feel for it. Mind you, this isn’t certain. That damn scrambler could affect the patterns. But I’ll bet dinner for a week that woman’s hiding something. Three days’ dinners it’s something to do with shipping schedules.”

Jeremy Savage laughed. “Rottermill, I doubt anyone will take your bets no matter how you dress them up. I certainly won’t.”

Rottermill made a wry face. “Colonel, if we could have the next call without the scrambler?”

“Of course.”

Captain Fast scratched his head. “Colonel, if the Chief Administrator is in league with the rebels—”

“We don’t know that,” Rottermill said.

“But it’s not unlikely?” Amos Fast asked.

“With Rottermill willing to bet?” Ian Frazer said. “Christ, do you think she’s been feeding Barton satellite data? No wonder they keep finding my patrols!”

Captain Fast whistled softly. “Colonel, shouldn’t we send some of the Headquarters Squad to see she doesn’t run away?”

“A bit hasty, perhaps,” Major Savage said. “Still, if this proves out—”

“I’ll ask the governor to bring her to dinner tonight,” Falkenberg said.

XVIII

Ann Chang sipped at an unremarkable port while the mess stewards silently cleared away. She half-listened as Falkenberg went through a meaningless ritual of thanking the Acting Mess President, as if Captain Fast weren’t Falkenberg’s adjutant and chief assistant. Come to that, this whole dinner has been pretty unremarkable. Nothing wrong with it, really: there’d been four courses and two kinds of game, and nothing was overcooked; but you could dine on the same fare in a dozen restaurants within two kilometers of Government House. Certainly the meal wasn’t anything worth inviting the governor to—and there was even less about it to have made Carleton Blaine insist that she change her dinner plans and come with him. Funny. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so insistent about anything. Odd.

Not a lot of people here. Colonel Falkenberg and Major Savage—apparently neither of them married, was there something strange about that? Captain Frazer’s wife seemed to be the official hostess. And of course Prince Lysander had brought that hotel girl. Captain Catherine Alana had come in late. Odd. Didn’t I see her in town, outside Government House, just this afternoon?

A trivial dinner, and that didn’t make sense. Why would Falkenberg invite the governor and his Chief Administrator to a very ordinary meal on such short notice? But Blaine had seemed pleased, even eager; almost as if he were anticipating something— She gasped involuntarily.

Could he know? No. Certainly not. He wasn’t that good an actor. “The guilty flee where no man pursueth.” Who said that? It certainly applies to me, Ann thought.

The toasts were over. All at once Falkenberg, the governor, and Captain Rottermill were standing at her chair.

“Excuse me for a few minutes, would you, Ann?” Blaine said. “The colonel has some news for me. Apparently it’s sensitive enough that I mustn’t share it with anyone, even you. Can’t imagine what it might be, but there it is. We shouldn’t be long. Perhaps you’ll join Prince Lysander and his young lady for a while?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Ann said automatically.

“Of course you will,” Blaine said. He walked away with Colonel Falkenberg.

Captain Rottermill stayed behind. “It’s really not all that complicated, Mrs. Chang,” he said. “Something to do with shipping schedules, I think.”

“I—shipping schedules?”

“A minor discrepancy somewhere,” Rottermill said. “Ah. Here’s Prince Lysander. I’ll leave you in his good hands.” Rottermill bowed and followed Falkenberg and Blaine.

What is this? Ann looked around wildly. Nothing seemed to have changed. No one was watching her. But— Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong. She fled to the women’s room.

No one else was inside. She stayed there as long as she thought she decently could. When she came out, Captain Alana was waiting for her. Captain Catherine Alana, and five soldiers in combat fatigues. Three were women. They all carried weapons and wore “MP” brassards.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Chang,” Catherine Alana said. She didn’t seem at all like the young lady who’d been at the governor’s dinner party only two weeks before. “I must ask you to come with us.”

“What? But I’m supposed to be with Prince Lysander—”

“We’ll explain to His Highness,” Captain Alana said. “I’m sorry, but I really must insist.” Catherine gestured, and her soldiers surrounded Ann Chang.

No one had touched her, or even been impolite, but Ann knew better than to resist. She nodded helplessly and followed her captor.

They took her to a bare, unadorned room. A folding plastic table and two folding chairs stood on the plastic floor. They ushered her inside and left her there alone.

They can’t do this! Inside, she knew they could. There were special laws and regulations for officials of very high rank. Governor Blaine had plenty of authority to deal with suspected treason.

Treason. But it wasn’t. I’m no traitor—

The door opened, and a young man about thirty years old came in. He wore sergeant’s stripes on his undress khaki uniform. “Good evening,” he said perfunctorily. “I am Special Investigator Andrew Bielskis. For the record, are you Ann Hollis Chang, Chief Administrator of Tanith?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And by what right are you talking to me like this?”

“Just routine, Ma’am.”

A sergeant. Not even an officer. Ann set her lips in a thin line. “I see no reason why I should speak to you at all. Please inform Governor Blaine that I want to go home now.”

“The governor’s busy with the colonel, Ma’am.” Sergeant Bielskis said. “Now, we understand you’re saying there are no ships in orbit around Tanith at present. Is this correct?”

“I don’t have to answer that!”

“No, Ma’am. We have the tapes of your conversation with Colonel Falkenberg this afternoon. I’ll play them if you like.”

“This is none of your business!” Ann shouted. “I want to see the governor!”

“I’m afraid it is my business, Ma’am,” Sergeant Bielskis said. “Colonel Falkenberg’s contract stipulates the neutralization and suppression of all organizations and persons dedicated to the overthrow of the lawful authorities of Tanith. Do you deny cooperating with the rebels?”

“What? But—”

The door opened and Captain Rottermill came in. His face was slightly red, as if he’d been running. “Sergeant Bielskis, what is this? Madame Chang, my apologies!”

Thank God! “No harm done, Captain. Thank you.”

“Now, Bielskis, just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Preliminary interrogation of detainee, sir,” Bielskis said.

“Sergeant, for heaven’s sake, this is the Chief Administrator of this planet!”

“Makes no difference, sir. We have solid evidence—”

“Evidence, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. At 1548 P.M., suspect having been instructed by the governor to inform this Regiment of all space traffic at present and for the future, personally stated to Colonel Falkenberg that there were no ships in orbit around Tanith and none expected. At approximately 0845 two days ago a Tanith landing ship under contract to Amalgamated Foundries, Inc. delivered supplies, liquid hydrogen, and liquid oxygen to CDMS Norton Star, which ship was then and is now in orbit around this planet. The landing ship requested and received clearance from the governor’s office. Sir.”

“Good Lord. But surely Mrs. Chang was not aware—”

“You can spare me the act, Captain,” Ann said. “Although I must say you’re very good at it. Tell me, Sergeant, what do you do when you’re not intimidating middle-aged grandmothers?”

Bielskis shrugged. “Pull the wings off flies, Ma’am?”

Ann chuckled. “All right, Captain, what’s going on here?”

“We’ve got you, you know,” Rottermill said. “Voice Stress Analyzers this afternoon, and this room is equipped with a full battery of remote physiological sensors.”