Her Majesty's Western Service (25 page)

“
I have a reputation,” Perry said. “I am not a criminal!”

“
Your duty to the Empire exceeds personal vanity.
We
know you are not a criminal,” said Fleming. “Your commander ordered you, but
I'm
appealing to your better nature and your professional self-interest.”

I should refuse further
, Perry thought, because this had gone from ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘nightmarish.’ Officially a fugitive? His name on watch lists?!

But what would be the point?

Orders were correct; the book existed for a reason.

How can this be correct!?

Stiff upper-lip. Think later. Orders are orders.

“
Very well. Sir. Ma'am. I apologize for my outburst, Admiral Richardson. And beg your pardon, ma’am. And Deputy Director Fleming, the same. Sir.”

“
Easily granted,” Richardson said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “This
will
be favorable to your career, Vice-Commodore.”

“
Career be damned,” Perry muttered. “It's not that I'm concerned about.”

“
Your reputation as well.”

“
Especially if he's successful,” said Fleming. He looked at Perry. “
Be
successful. I have a bad feeling. If Theron Marko is involved, it is serious business and no mistake.
Damn
those DIS
idiots
for kicking off this war and blinding me right now, of all times!”

“
You poured the Vice-Commodore a drink,” said Richardson. “I think he needs it.”

“I’
m fine,” Perry said. Shocked and horrified and disgusted, but – duty was duty.

That was the only rationale. Even when duty was –

He’d never imagined
this
. He’d never imagined the Service, the Crown, requiring that he sacrifice his reputation. His morals.

How can this be right?

His commanding officer, and a very senior Intelligence man, were saying it was. The people who defined his duty.

It’s wrong and I hate it
.

He swallowed. Hard, and again. There were thoughts he did not want to voice. There were appropriate words for this.

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated. “I’m fine. Ma’am.” A look at Fleming, hoping it didn’t show the shocked hatred he was scared he might be feeling toward the man right now. “And sir.”

"Knew you'd come around,
” Fleming said. “Have a drink to that, then.”

“
To that, sir,” Perry agreed. Took the Scotch, knocked it against Fleming's and the glass Ahle had been offered, and tipped the glass back.

It burned down his throat, but he needed it.

Two o'clock. Perry had been over the plan, step by step, with Moore. It had to look real. That meant, because enlisted men did go to Dodge City and talk, that the plan had to
be
real.

I hate this. Words cannot begin to describe how much I loathe this idea.

Deputy Director Fleming had said it was necessary. Richardson had made it an order, although he was under Fleming's authority now. The personal tastes of one Vice-Commodore were not relevant to the equation, it had been made clear.

I have to do it. I don't have to like it.

Step one. Go into the cells. Visit Ahle.

He felt the pressure-loaded gel gun in
a shoulder-holster under his coat. A fine-tuned item from Fleming's personal armory. Intended for exactly this sort of purpose.

I hate this. In everything but reality, I'm committing mutiny and treason.

Ahle sat at the door of her her cell, eyes focused on the clock at the end of the hallway. This was a small block of secure cells; the barracks-room drunk types were held on the floor above. Clean but Spartan; a cot, a sink, a toilet and a box for personal property. Almost all of which had been taken away, with the exception of her clothes, and those had been very
very
carefully searched before being returned to her.

At least you could request books. That was one of the privileges they could take away for misbehavior.
Ahle’s officers wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

Aside from the whole being-in-prison thing. With nooses practically hanging around their necks. If she failed to deliver, they’d all die. At least if that uptight son of a bitch Perry had anything to say about it, although she supposed that if she failed to deliver, he’d be dead himself.

2:05 am, the clock said. 2:06. Behind schedule. She wanted to get up and pace, to the limits that the small cell allowed pacing, but that would have meant taking her eyes from the clock.

A pair of young Army MPs showed up, dressed in neat khaki. One of them had the usual heavy gel gun; both had holstered pistols. The one without the gel gun put a key into the lock.

“Captain Ahle. I see you’re awake,” said the other one. A lance corporal.

“Yes, Lance Corporal. Thoughts of the noose tend to make sleep difficult,”
Ahle said acidly.

“A
n Air Service Vice-Commodore wants to see you. He says he has questions to ask. Come with us.”

“It’s past two in the morning,”
Ahle muttered.

“Sorry, Captain. Important. You can come nicely or we can put chains on.”

“I’ll come nicely. What does the son of a bitch want
now
?”

The cell door opened. Hollis, in the
one next to hers, gave her a wink. He knew; somebody had to, to give the others an idea in case she didn’t come back. May as well know why they were dying.

She shrugged to herself. This happened, when you were a pirate. Part of the deal. You lived or died by it, it and the Code. She’d help Fleming and get that ship back for
Perry, if that was what it took. The crew – the
officers
, anyway, the
crew
was already dead and she very much had her own motivation for avenging them anyway – would live.

Perry was in a small briefing room on the other side of a pair of secure doors. He sat nervously behind a steel desk, focused
on his watch. Wearing uniform under a long civilian coat.

Dirt-poor actor
, Ahle thought. But the MPs didn’t seem to realize anything was up.

“Private Gardner will stay here with you,” said the lance.

“I can take care of myself, Lance,” said Perry. He touched the automatic on his hip. “And Private Gardner isn’t cleared for this conversation. Neither are you.”

“She’s a dangerous woman, sir. We have orders.”

“You also have a security clearance. That does not cover this conversation. You can monitor her perfectly well from the other side of that door.” Perry’s tone was command;
he
is
a vice-commodore
, Ahle thought.

Yeah, don’t forget that. Senior officer, squadron commander. Mid-thirties; young for his rank, too. This isn’t some regular Imperial grunt we’re dealing with,
Ahle forced herself to remember. This man has seen action, and the son of a bitch would
not
have his present rank if he wasn’t good.

“Don’t try anything,
Ahle. I’d love to kill you,” said Perry, as the two MPs left. The door had a small observation window, and young Private Gardner’s face was clear on the other side.

“Soundproofed door,” said Perry. “And the monitoring is turned off. We can speak freely.”

“Are you ready to go?” Ahle asked. A little nervous, although not as nervous as the Imperial.

Perry handed her a notepad. Taped to the underside of it was a two-shot gas gun, a sprayer.
Ahle took the attached pencil and began drawing random designs; sketching something for Private Gardner’s benefit, schematics or whatever he wanted to imagine. Palmed the gas gun with her other hand and slipped it into a pocket.

Perry drew a sprayer of his own. The things fired a concentrated irritant that set the victim to sneezing
and tears. Incapacited for a bit, fine half an hour later. Focused on his watch, they mouthed words back and forth for a couple of minutes.

He’s tense
, Ahle thought. Out of his element. Well, that was her job, to help him with that shit. He’s more competent than he looks.

“We have thirty seconds,” said Perry. “Ready?”

Ahle gave a nod.

Perry signaled the man at the door. The two of them got up.

“We’re done here,” Perry said to the two MPs, as the door opened.

“I told you, I’m not betraying my people.”

“Then you’ll hang,” said Perry. Still focused on his watch.

Suddenly he looked up. Raised the spray gun and blasted first the
lance corporal, then a dumbfounded Private Gardner, in the face. Both men began choking and sneezing, the lance-corporal doubling over.

A dull boom, somewhere not far away. Almost instantly, the lights went out.

Perry had an electrical flashlight in his other hand. He turned it on.

“Come on. Spray and run.”

The two of them headed out, Perry pausing to bolt the door of the interrogation room with the two MPs inside. Up a corridor, then a flight of stairs. Another checkpoint.

Flashlight beam shone into
Ahle’s face, blinding her.

“Vice-Commodore Perry, god damn it. Urgent!”

The door opened.

Ahle
sprayed the man on the other side in the face. He went down, fighting for breath like the other two MPs.

Down a corridor. Shouts. This was where the petty
miscreants were kept, soldiers and airshipmen on seven-, fifteen- or thirty-day confinement.

Halfway, they met another two MPs, with gel guns drawn.

“Stop! Stop right there!”

“I’m an
Air Service Vice-Commodore,” said Perry. Shone his own flashlight on his shoulders and rank insignia.

The two lowered their gel guns. Perry sprayed one;
Ahle the other, squirting the gas hard into the MPs’ faces.

And I’m empty
, Ahle thought. She bent down and took one of the men’s gel guns – he fought to retain it, but he was coughing and sneezing and mostly blinded. Her long fingers felt around the somewhat familiar weapon – not that she’d used this particular model, but physics required all gel guns to be functionally pretty similar.

Damn thing was still on safety. She corrected that –
I think
– and followed Perry.

They were on the ground level. Another security checkpoi
nt, but a cursory one, only a single man. His partner must have run off for help.

“
Vice Perry, signing out,” Perry told the man there. “Got to run, sign for me.”

“Who’s the one with you?”

“My assistant,” Perry snapped as the door opened. “Sign her out too.”

Outside was dark. The explosion had cut the power to most of central Hugoton, although the inner offices and barracks had emergency internal backups that were starting to come online. A bomb had taken out
a vital carrier cable. There’d be an enquiry.

I’ll be found guilty as a conspirator
, Perry thought,
for things I have no idea how to do in the first place.

No time to think about it. No time to let the bile rise in his throat again. Power wouldn
’t be down forever; time to run. He had it planned out, had walked through the course; now he led Ahle along it; down a narrow alley between the MP and one of the rapid reaction companies’ guardhouses; out the front of that guardhouse, past a trackless steam-tank on a maintenance pad, across a throughway of busy people with flashlights and searchlights.

Power down; everyone went to full alert, yes. The rapid reaction companies were coming out, engaging the electric lights on their
eight-wheeled APCs and light tanks; backup power would engage
any time now
. At present nobody was paying him much mind. That’d change.

It would be a disaster to get caught this early. All the trouble, all the consequences from trouble, and
no
gain.

His boots pounded on the dust.
Behind another of the rapid-reaction guardhouses, into a narrow gap between the military area and the civilian facilities. On the other side of a – presently powerless – electric fence was a railyard; trains sitting idle, although the closest was powered-up and ready to go, its air brakes hissing.

It would leave, picking up high speed as an express run to St. Louis, in three and a half minutes as of Time. However much of it they had left. Missing it would be another disaster, although there was a backup.