Bastard.
There was a stir at the entrance; the honor guard there was not giving the same carefully neutral salute they had accorded the Spartan kings and their Legion officers.
The Helots, Owensford thought sardonically. Meet the enemy.
They had come under CoDominium safe-conduct, in a heavily armed Marine shuttle.
Pity, he thought savagely. Otherwise they’d never get out of here alive. They may not anyway, once I drop my little surprise into the meeting. Then: Observe. Know the enemy.
The CD Commandant had insisted on seeing all parties to the civil war, including those that did not recognize each other as belligerents and those claiming neutrality. The Royal government had spent three days protesting the safe-conduct for the Helots; the Marine commandant had been sympathetic—no doubt where the CoDo garrison’s sympathies lay, particularly after the violations of the Laws of War—but standing orders left no latitude, not with a Grand Senator breathing down their neck.
The CoDominium might be tottering towards its grave, but the walking corpse of it still possessed a power no planet without space-navy capacity could ignore. Even now, a blatant violation like the shuttle bombing could not be ignored. Not even when Sparta’s friends included influential Senators and Grand Admiral Lermontov. Especially then, when those friends fought for their lives and any excuse might serve their enemies to bring them down. There were so many enemies, Kaslov’s murderous neoStalinists in the USSR, Harmon’s demented Patriot Party in the US, both openly courting nuclear war with nihilistic relish. Bronson and his opportunists playing both sides against the middle for private gain. . . .
Take a good look, he reminded himself, studying the half-dozen rebel leaders. They were in camouflage jackets and leather trousers and boots, but neatly pressed, brasswork and the badges on their berets polished. A touch of bandido-flamboyance here and there, a brass earring or long braided hair, a bit of swagger. Skida Thibodeau was in the midst of them and her eyes flicked over him with a steady considering look as she passed, like a predator in hot jungle thoughtfully eyeing a wild boar.
Owensford straightened slightly, feeling an instinctive bristling. The dog and the wolf, he thought ironically. He had studied the records and the pictures carefully, but they had not prepared him for this sleek exotic handsomeness, the graceful deadliness of a fer-de-lance.
It must have taken considerable courage to come here, anyway; there were more than a few Spartans and some Legionnaires who would have risked the CoDominium’s anger to kill the enemy leaders. This was a bitter war, and the reason for it was right here. Owensford studied them carefully; one or two might not be aware of the danger they were in, several of the others were slightly stiff with the knowledge of it, under their bravado. Skilly was completely relaxed, even slightly amused. The mercenary officer felt his teeth show slightly. Most soldiers endured danger by an act of will. He had known some who enjoyed it . . . and a few who were simply not much affected one way or another, icemen. He had never liked them; there was something missing inside in someone like that, and the Helot leader looked to be a prime example. There was a mind behind the big dark eyes. . . . But no soul, he decided. None at all.
Ace Barton leaned close and whispered: “Notice Niles,” he said.
That must be the tall blond man; he felt their eyes and turned to give them a false and toothy grin as the Helots seated themselves. Skilly leaned back in her chair with arms and legs negligently crossed, and went instantly to sleep.
“Doesn’t look much like the pictures.” They had extensive video files on the Honorable Geoffrey Niles, and despite the unmistakable Nordic cheekbones and male-model looks, this was a different man. “Our little sprig on the Bronson family tree isn’t nearly so much the silly-ass Englishman, these days,” Barton replied thoughtfully.
“Can’t say that it’s altogether an improvement,” Owensford said. Nearly two Earth years in the wilderness had thinned him down, and given him something of the feral look the others at the Helot table had. “Keeping bad company and all.”
“Gentlemen, ladies.” The CoDominium lieutenant called from the inner door; he had a flat Russian face, ash-blond hair turning gray and body stringy under the blue-and-scarlet dress uniform. “The Commandant will see you now.”
* * *
“Ten-‘hut,” the garrison Sergeant-Major said. “This meeting will come to order.”
There was a rustle, the military men standing to and the civilians a little straighter; the kings had already been seated, of course, being heads of state. David I looked no more worried than usual; the improvement in Alexander I was as night and day.
Colonel Boris Karantov returned the polite nods of the Spartan and Legion soldiers and ignored the Helots. He sat carefully, lowering himself down by his hands; he was in his seventies and looked older, regeneration treatments or no.
“Be seated, gentlemen, ladies.” His Anglic was still slightly Russian.
“We are here to discuss violations of the Treaty of Independence governing relations between this planet and the CoDominium. And of the Laws of War. Let me first establish that the CoDominium is strictly neutral in the current conflict; I am uninterested in the rights or wrongs of that struggle as you perceive them. I remind you that this meeting is being recorded, and the records will be made available to the appropriate offices of the CoDominium Authority as well as to the Grand Senate.”
There was a flat weariness to the tone, the voice of a man who has excluded everything but the performance of a job in which he no longer really believes.
“Now, a shuttle—a civilian vessel—” he pronounced it wessle “—under charter to the Bureau of Relocation, carrying both involuntary colonists not yet transferred to Spartan jurisdiction, and off-duty officers of the CoDominium Fleet, has been destroyed by an act of criminal terrorism. I have called all possible parties here to account for this crime. Your Majesties?”
“We, the Dual Monarchy’s government denounce this abhorrent act.” Alexander looked sternly toward Skida Thibodeau. “It is quite possible that this was an operation organized by this person as a provocation to discredit us. However, we are fairly sure that a dissident group called the SCA is responsible, and if—when—we catch the individuals responsible, they will be subject to trial and execution. Or turned over to you for punishment, Commandant. Sparta values its relations with the CoDominium.” A subtle reminder that they had powerful friends in the Grand Senate.
Karantov nodded non-committally, his fingers rolling a light-pencil. “Still,” he said judiciously, “this SCA is believed to have links to your own security apparat. You say this is entirely a matter of disaffected individuals, but this would be claimed in any case.”
His eyes rose to Croser. “Mr. Croser, your organization has also been linked to terrorist activities. You have to say?”
Croser’s nod was politely deferential. “Sir, firstly, the NCLF is purely a peaceful political party. It’s true we hope to form the government after the illegal Royalist regime is rejected by the people in the upcoming referendum” —David I snorted, and Alexander almost rose in his fury, with General Desjardins laying a hand on his arm— “but we seek to use only legitimate means.”
Karantov made a slight bored gesture, as if waving the Spartan through the necessary pieties.
“More to the point,” Croser continued, his face and voice taking on a flatter, harsher tone. “The NCLF draws its strength from the oppressed classes—that is, from the transportees oppressed by the Royalist regime. Every transport which lands increases our just strength. It would be suicidal for us to interrupt the flow, even if we would stoop to such an atrocity as this.
“No,” he went on, the mellow voice taking on a ringing quality, “the only logical candidate is the Royalists themselves—lashing out in their desperation, now that the whirlwind they created by their own actions is out of control. Through this false-front SCA, which they use to disguise actions too repulsive even for them to openly admit to. Certainly the SCA has claimed responsibility.”
Bastard. Owensford thought. But a smart bastard. No way to prove that wasn’t true.
Karantov’s head turned toward the Helots. Their commander was sitting with one fist supporting her chin, watching the byplay between the others with lazy enjoyment.
“These NCLF rabbiblancos be getting some thing right every now and then, even if they be wuss weaklings,” she said lightly. “The Spartan People’s Liberation Army be a transportee army. Why we kill our own recruits?”
The CoDo officer nodded grimly; obviously loathing the speaker to the point of physical distaste at listening, equally obviously accepting the argument.
Alexander shook off the police commander’s hand. “I repeat, as a provocation, of course. You would very much like to ruin our relations with the CD.”
Skilly grinned insolently and leaned back with one arm hooked around the back of her chair. She examined the nails of the other hand.