The Thirteenth Man (21 page)

Still standing behind Arthur, who appeared almost entranced by the image of the space station on the screen, Charlie nodded toward Andyne-­Borregga. “No one really knows about this yet, and by the time they do, it had better be able to defend itself.”

Charlie had explained to Arthur how he'd acquired the station. “It's isolated, few ­people have ever heard of it, and those who have don't remember it. The Borreggan system isn't even on most charts. Right now it's defenseless, but we're installing some defensive batteries and active shielding on the outer structure, and when I can dig up the funding I'm going to install a ­couple of big orbital weapons platforms in defensive positions. And I need someone to run the whole thing. Can you do it? At least until you get the de Maris ducal seat back.”

Arthur grinned. “Turn one of your headaches over to me, huh?”

“Yes. Sague needs to get back to his operations on Istanna, and I need you to take his place, manage the operations here.”

The Headsman
eased carefully into one of Andyne-­Borregga's air docks. Once she cleared the docking bay doors they closed ponderously, the dock crew brought gravity in the dock slowly up to one-­tenth standard, and the ship settled onto its landing struts. Large ships like
The Headsman
couldn't support themselves in full gravity without a constant power feed to her internal gravity generators. One-­tenth standard was a nice compromise, permitting the ship to shut down its systems completely, and allowing maintenance personnel to work in the comfort of a gravity well. It was certainly preferable to working in zero-­G in vacuum suits in orbit.

Once the bay doors were sealed they brought the dock's internal air pressure up to standard. Darmczek and his crew would spend a good hour securing the ship's systems, though since Darmczek hadn't scheduled maintenance for
The Headsman
, they'd leave her power plant on a trickle so it could be restarted in short order. Charlie and Arthur were free to go.

A long gantry extended about ten meters above the dock's floor and mated to the ship's main personnel hatch. The twins and Sague waited for Charlie and Arthur there. “Your Grace,” Sague said, bowing carefully to Charlie. He turned to Arthur, bowed again, and said, “Your Grace.”

Arthur paled. “I'm not the Duke de Maris, Mr. Sague. The honorific isn't appropriate.”

Sague winced uncomfortably. “But you're the rightful heir to the de Maris ducal seat . . .” He glanced at Charlie.

Charlie smiled and didn't say anything.

“Come,” Sague said abruptly. “Please, I have a tour prepared for you, as well as a complete briefing.”

Only about one percent of Andyne-­Borregga's systems were fully operational, which surprised Charlie. But Sague told him, “However, we've verified and tested more than half her systems, and they can be fully operational in a matter of hours. But we're so understaffed at the moment there's no need to bring them all up. Right now we're focused on testing and verifying status of the rest, and identifying those that need repair or maintenance. And from what we've seen so far, there aren't too many systems that require repair, so if they're not critical, we flag them for later review and ignore them for the time being. For the rest, we perform any needed maintenance as part of the testing and verification, then shut them down until needed.”

Charlie didn't want a large staff at Starfall, so with few exceptions, as refugees of various kinds arrived, he sent them on to Andyne-­Borregga. Sague had a little over three thousand ­people working on the station at the moment—­when fully supplied it could easily accommodate a ­couple million—­and he estimated that with the manpower on hand Arthur could complete testing of existing systems in under a month. But equipment for the new defensive batteries and surface shielding had already begun to arrive from Aziz, and Arthur pointed out that installation would be a real construction project, not merely testing and maintenance. He and Sague both agreed that, with the exception of any remaining critical systems, they'd focus work on the new defensive installations.

Arthur and Sague jumped into the minutiae of the work, carefully discussing the details of manpower and resource scheduling. Charlie had no aptitude for such detail, so he wandered down to check out some of the work crews. He saw one group using a grav lifter to muscle a heavy piece of equipment into place. He moved on and stopped at a window looking out over one of the station's zero-­G vacuum docks. As a group unloaded equipment from a small merchantman, someone behind him said, “Commander? That you?”

Charlie turned to find a slightly overweight chief petty officer facing him, a man with whom he'd shared the chain. Charlie smiled, and the man frowned as he suddenly realized what he'd said. “Sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I forgot, didn't mean to call you commander, just—­”

“No,” Charlie said, sticking out his hand. “For you and anyone else who shared the chain with me, it'll always be just
commander
.”

The man smiled, began shaking Charlie's hand with ridiculous vigor, and shouted over his shoulder, “Hey guys, Commander Cass is here. It's the commander.”

In a matter of seconds a dozen men surrounded him, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. He couldn't remember any of their names, but he knew their faces without any hesitation. “We was just gonna break for lunch,” the chief said. “Wanna join us, Commander?”

They led him to a small cafeteria where they all got trays of simple food. Apparently, word spread quickly and in short order the cafeteria filled with a ­couple hundred men from the chain. They laughed, joked, ate; Charlie even got into a short dice game with a few of them, lost all the cash he had on hand. It was Sague who interrupted the fun. “My apologies, Your Grace, but it's time to go.”

It took Charlie more than an hour to give every single one of them a good handshake and a slap on the back. And when they finally did leave, his hand was a swollen, bruised wreck.

He wouldn't have traded that for anything.

As he and Sague and the twins walked to
The Headsman
's dock, Sague said, “I believe your next stop is Tachaann, is it not, Your Grace?”

“Yes it is.”

“Then Istanna is not far out of your way. It would be advantageous to everyone if you could make a short stop there. There is an important personage there who wishes to meet you.”

Sague refused to be more specific than that, and though Charlie trusted the man, it set his curiosity afire.

“M
ay I introduce Mr. Cahntu,” Sague said, “chairman of the Istannan Planetary Council?”

Sestimar Cahntu was an ordinary looking man, average height, a little overweight, late middle age, graying hair, simple business suit. He bowed deeply. “Your Grace, it's a pleasure.” Like Sague he spoke in the sharp, clipped Istannan accent.

“The pleasure is mine,” Charlie said. “You honor me, Chairman Cahntu.”

Sague poured them drinks of some fiery Istannan whiskey and directed them to a ­couple of comfortable chairs in his office. Since the meeting was at Cahntu's request, Charlie let him set the pace, though it was aggravating to have to waste his time discussing local Istannan politics. Eventually, Cahntu said, “I suppose you're wondering why I requested this meeting, Your Grace.”

Charlie smiled and said, “Somehow I doubt it was to discuss the controversy surrounding rice subsidies, and the trade imbalance that has produced with Terranzalbo.”

Cahntu laughed. “Quite tedious, isn't it? But it plays a role in the coming election. Though I must confess your king's ambitions will play an even greater role.”

Charlie didn't want to take that bait. “Which ambitions are you referring to?”

“His annexation of Aagerbanne, of course, and his alliance with Syndon.”

Charlie tried to be evasive. “But how does that concern you?”

Cahntu swirled the whiskey in his glass and looked at it for a moment. “The entire Planetary Council, and most of the general populace of Istanna, fears that his annexation of Aagerbanne is merely the first step toward annexation of all of the independent states.”

Charlie could see where this was going and wasn't sure he wanted it to go there. “It's no secret that Lucius has ambitions of empire. Why come to me?”

“Because it's well known that you have no love of the Syndonese and that you openly oppose Lucius's warlike inclinations. Because Sague speaks highly of you.”

Sague had been mysterious about this meeting, had refused any details in advance, though he had made a point to say beforehand, “During this meeting, should you have any doubts, please be assured that I have divulged none of your activities.” The man nodded now, to indicate what he'd said earlier was still true.

Cahntu continued. “And because if Lucius attempts to annex another of the independent states, there'll be war. And perhaps the most important reason: because Ethallan recommended I speak with you.”

Charlie couldn't help but show surprise. “Ethallan?”

“Yes. She wouldn't say more than that, but when I expressed our concern to her only a tenday ago, she told me to speak with you.”

. . .
only a tenday ago . . .
That was a hint that Cahntu had been in contact with her after she'd gone into exile.

“Tell me, Your Grace. We have a certain need for small arms, light armor, and explosives, things of that nature. And we have the funds to pay for them. Could you recommend a supplier?”

Charlie assumed Cahntu intended to feed such supplies to the Aagerbanni resistance, so he spoke cautiously. “Hart & Delorm on Toellan are certainly capable of supplying the materials you require, and can be quite discreet in such matters. I know them personally, am one of their investors, and I'd be happy to have a word with them.”

Cahntu looked Charlie in the eyes, and Charlie felt as if nothing was hidden from the man. Cahntu said, “That would be kind of you, Your Grace.”

“And what of you?” Charlie asked. “Should it come to war, is Istanna prepared to fight? Can Istanna field troops and arms?” At that moment Charlie had an idea he'd never considered. “Might Istanna be prepared to enter into a coalition to oppose Lucius and Goutain?”

Cahntu smiled. “Three questions, Your Grace. Three answers. Yes. Yes. And it would depend upon who would be our partners in this coalition.”

Charlie shook his head. “Partnerships don't work in war. A coalition would need one leader.”

“Of course, Your Grace. And I think we know who that leader should be, though I've only recently met him and don't know him well. But ­people who do know him speak highly of him, ­people whom I trust. And I will admit that my first impression of him is good.”

Charlie stood politely when Sague ushered Cahntu out of the room. It occurred to him he should find a way to surreptitiously contact the leaders of the other independent states, try the same proposal on them. He decided to broach the subject with Sague on the way to the spaceport. When the Istannan returned he was preparing to leave.

“No, Your Grace. You mustn't leave yet. You have several more meetings.”

Clearly Sague had had a similar thought—­and the foresight to act on it. So Charlie watched as Sague then ushered in the ambassador from Finalsa, followed by the ambassadors from Toellan, Terranzalbo, Allison's Cluster, and the Scorpo Systems. Charlie met with each of them separately, and with each the conversation was much the same as it had been with Cahntu. Clearly, they'd spoken with one another, if not in a large group then in smaller meetings like these. Charlie made a point of indirectly asking each of them how many capital ships they could supply to a coalition effort, if such a coalition were to be formed, and if war did come. Two ships from one, four or five from another—­not a lot, but they could each supply a few. And while he didn't have exact numbers, the total added up to something like twenty or thirty capital ships, plus assorted cruisers, frigates, and destroyers. If he could add a dozen ships of his own, with the element of surprise they could defeat Lucius and Goutain.

He was a soldier, not a politician, but he realized it was time to start thinking like one. Time to be proactive. Time to decide what needed doing, then see that it was done. For the first time he thought he saw a way to win this war that was not really a war. But it would be dangerous, for if any hint or rumor of his complicity were to make it back to the king or any of the Ten, it would be disastrous. Any coalition he formed would fall apart without him, and they'd know that. Goutain or Nadama wouldn't hesitate to pay him a visit at Starfall and drop a few salvos of large warheads on the place, then claim ignorance of the whole incident afterward. He'd be radioactive vapor, and they'd be victorious conquerors.

It occurred to him that there was one piece of the equation missing: the mysterious Kinathin home world, where aging breeds were reputed to retire. For all he knew they didn't have any ships, were just a planet full of peaceful old pensioners. He'd still like to put the question to them, so he tried one last time to broach the subject with Add and Ell. As always, they ignored him and changed the subject.

But with or without the breeds—­and even with all of these meetings and plans running through his head—­it still wasn't clear to him whether he could actually put such a coalition together. And in the end, he wasn't sure if this had been a wasted trip or not.

 

CHAPTER 21

COUNTERFEIT LEADER

S
oon, a fair number of ships would be docking at Andyne-­Borregga to take advantage of its facilities. There would be spacers on shore leave wandering its corridors, and without some form of entertainment, that could become a big problem. As Momma Toofat had said any number of times, “Spacers want girls, booze, gambling, and food, or they get bored. And bored spacers are bad for everyone.” So Charlie stopped at Tachaann and cut a deal with Momma to be entertainment coordinator on Andyne-­Borregga. She'd open a place or two there herself, and arrange for some of her peers to do the same. She didn't mind the competition because, as entertainment coordinator, she would be allowed to collect franchise fees from the other proprietors. Charlie left Tachaann with one less thing to worry about.

In his small, private cabin on
The Headsman
, Charlie racked his brains to determine if he'd done anything different the last time he'd gone down to the blind corridor. Darmczek had given him a junior officer's berth, since Charlie refused to displace one of the senior officers. It had a small fold-­down desk, and Charlie sat there replaying over and over again the last time he'd gone down to the blind corridor. He hadn't been fully dressed, had just thrown a bathrobe over his underwear, and that was certainly different because previously he'd always been fully clothed. But why would the corridor not respond because of a bathrobe? And it wasn't as if there was something special about the clothing he'd worn; he was certain he'd worn something different almost every time he'd gone down there. So why had the corridor not responded last time?

Darmczek's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Your Grace, we're about ten minutes out from down-­transition.”

“Thank you, Captain. I'll be right up.”

Charlie stood, checked his image in a small mirror, and adjusted his tunic and the wiring for the visual distortion field generator embedded in it. He switched the field on and his image in the mirror changed to that of a middle-­aged man, dark hair with gray at the temples, brown eyes, thin tight lips, unsmiling. They'd worked carefully on this image and the persona that would accompany it: Edwin Chevard, a fictitious name, man, and personality.

Charlie switched the distortion field off and his own face reappeared. He left the small cabin, marched down the hall, and climbed the ladder to the cramped confines of
The Headsman
's bridge. Oddly enough, he was more comfortable in a man-­of-­war where space was doled out sparingly. Darmczek had reserved one of the redundant navigation consoles for Charlie, and as he sat down and strapped in he felt that odd tingle in the back of his mind that told him they'd just down-­transited.

Out of habit, Charlie watched the navigational information build on his screen as shipboard instruments gathered data about nearby space. “Clear to a hundred thousand kilometers, sir,” the young navigator seated next to Charlie said.

“Drones out,” Darmczek barked, and
The Headsman
's hull thrummed as she launched her navigational drones. With the drones providing a wider baseline and increased resolution, the navigational data built even more rapidly. No ships in their immediate vicinity, but a ­couple of transition wakes inbound at three light-­years.

“Sir, we've got an incoming signal from a ship at about one light-­year,” the com tech advised.

“Pass it to me,” Darmczek said, and as always his words sounded more like a growl.

Charlie had to lean slightly to one side to see Darmczek through the maze of consoles and instrument clusters. He saw Darmczek's lips move as he spoke through his implants, then he heard Darmczek's voice in his own implants. “Your Grace, the Lady Ethallan.”

Ethallan's face appeared on Charlie's screen. Unlike the last time they'd met, a certain strain had etched crow's feet about the corners of her eyes now. She nodded politely. “Your Grace, I've arranged the meeting as you requested, though my colleagues are distrustful. And, as you requested, I kept your identity to myself.”

“Thank you. You know full well that if the king or any of the Ten hear even a rumor of my complicity with FAR, I'm a dead man.”

“I fully understand, Your Grace. They're here to meet Edwin Chevard, an old friend and business associate of mine. Though my man Kierson has been with me long enough to know all of my long-­term associates, so he's somewhat suspicious of the Chevard identity. But I'm confident he doesn't suspect a disguise, and I've dropped some veiled hints that we were lovers when much younger. In any case, he's loyal and I'm confident he'll be discreet. I do hope you have some good news. The resistance is losing its vigor through attrition and lack of supplies.”

“I too hope I bring good news,” he said. “We've spotted two transition wakes incoming. Are those your colleagues?”

“I believe so, but we won't know for certain until they down-­transit.”

Ethallan signed off and the waiting began. Another hour passed before the two ships down-­transited, and like Ethallan and
The Headsman
, they chose a position about a half light-­year short of the rendezvous coordinates. Caution was the word of the day.

They detected a number of encrypted transmissions between Ethallan and the two new arrivals, then Ethallan contacted
The Headsman
and confirmed that the two ships were her colleagues. All four ships then carefully executed a short transition hop to within a hundred million kilometers of each other. Further maneuvering brought them to within one million kilometers. Again, paranoid caution ruled all.

After tracking the emission signatures on the three ships, Darmczek was satisfied
The Headsman
could outgun them. Of course, that was obvious to them as well, and they'd probably noted that she emitted a characteristic Syndonese emission profile, all of which would make the two newcomers quite nervous. Over Darmczek's objections, Charlie agreed to shuttle over to Ethallan's destroyer-­class yacht where they'd all meet.

As Charlie stepped out of
The Headsman
's gunboat into the small hangar bay of her yacht, she stood nearby to greet him, Kierson standing beside her, two men and a woman standing behind her eyeing him suspiciously. The visual distortion field projected Edwin Chevard's image across Charlie's features, and a programmable vocal implant disguised his voice.

“Edwin,” Ethallan said, playing her role beautifully. “My dear Edwin, it's been too long.”

Since Edwin Chevard, to all appearances, was of an age with Ethallan, she had come up with the idea that Chevard should flirt lightly with her. So Charlie bowed deeply, kissed her hand as she proffered it, straightened, and said, “All you need do is marry me, dear lady, and I'll cling to your side like your most devoted servant.”

She laughed and Charlie found her incredibly attractive in that moment. “You're as shameless as always. Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”

She turned, and with her hand resting lightly on Charlie's arm, escorted him to the woman and two men. Ethallan had provided pictures and briefed him carefully on the three. As she introduced each of them, Charlie reviewed what he'd learned about them.

Colonel Therman Tarlo was tall and handsome and cut quite the dashing figure in his military uniform, complete with gold-­braided epaulettes. It was all polish, though, since he was a mediocre military officer at best, put in charge of the resistance's modest combat forces out of necessity when he was much better suited to a peacetime administrative job. But apparently Tarlo was quite aware of his own limitations and let his subordinates, who were better strategists, tell him what to do. Charlie could respect that.

Sandeman Dirkas was a short, fat man, the top of his partially bald head covered in a fine down of hair, his brown business suit rumpled and unkempt. He was the politician, could be quite a firebrand, but more in a calculating way as opposed to a fanatic. His greatest contribution was that he knew how to speak to crowds. Ethallan said he hid behind the image of a rabble-­rouser, but was actually more pragmatic when getting the job done, and an expert at cutting backroom deals.

Last was Thea Somal, a frumpy, middle-­aged woman with motherly, grayish-­brown hair styled in an unflattering bob. Like the others, her looks belied her; she was, in fact, a savvy businesswoman who had amassed a considerable fortune through her own efforts, and was responsible for much of the resistance's financing. And while much of her support stemmed from the fact that Lucius's annexation of Aagerbanne was seriously hurting her financial interests, it was a motive Charlie could trust.

They shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries before Ethallan led them to her study—­a small, private office that made exorbitant use of space on what was actually a destroyer disguised as a yacht. While Ethallan served them snifters of brandy, Somal asked Charlie, “So, Mr. Chevard, how long have you known Lady Ethallan?”

Charlie smiled at her. “We were close friends when we were much younger, when we were students. Unfortunately, our various responsibilities have meant that our friendship must endure great distances and almost continuous separation.”

Dirkas asked gruffly, “You're Toellani?”

Charlie sipped his brandy and shook his head. “I was born in the Realm, but my father had some difficulty with one of Lucius's ambitions, so for many years now I've called Toellan home.”

Tarlo sat down in an expensive looking antique chair. “I thought I heard the Realm in your voice. And as to difficulty with Lucius's ambitions, we do seem to share that in common.”

Charlie smiled, and purposefully made it an unpleasant smile. “Yes, the enemy-­of-­mine-­enemy thing.”

“Is that why we're here?” Dirkas asked. “Because we share a common enemy?”

Charlie shrugged. “In a sense. Let's just say that Lucius's newest ambition is causing considerable difficulty in certain interests of mine.”

Ethallan had told Charlie that such a position would resonate nicely with Somal. “So you think we can find common cause?” the businesswoman asked.

Charlie sipped his brandy. “In some areas, yes. I can't provide capital ships or combat troops, not directly. I can't act that openly. On the other hand I've begun a small commercial venture in the Borreggan system that you might find advantageous.”

“Borreggan system,” Dirkas said. “Never heard of it.” He looked to the others one at a time, and each shrugged or shook their head to indicate that they too had never heard of the system.

Charlie continued. “I'm not surprised. Borregga is a gas giant, with no habitable planets, a bit out of the way, but still conveniently accessible.”

Somal asked, “And what commercial venture do you have there that'll be of interest to us?”

Charlie smiled at her. “I'm a significant investor in a space station there named Andyne, orbiting the primary. It's a large space station, with a shipyard fully capable of supplying, outfitting, and repairing capital ships. Including armaments.”

Tarlo's eyes focused on Charlie as he continued. “Andyne-­Borregga is a free port, and its operations staff will not discriminate against any ship because of type or registry . . . although Syndonese ships might find themselves a bit put off by our hospitality,” he added with a smile. The others smiled back for a moment, but the mood turned somber again. Charlie continued.

“I've heard that you've been having difficulty of late. That you have ships playing a role in certain disputes, but they can't put into a normal port for supply and repairs. I've heard that your efforts are faltering because of that, and some of you fear you may not be able to continue the struggle. Let me assure you, those ships will be welcome at Andyne-­Borregga.”

Tarlo looked at Somal and Dirkas and said, “This is exactly what we've needed. This could make the difference.”

Charlie spread his hands in a gesture of helpless submission. “Andyne-­Borregga is, however, a commercial operation, so nothing is free.”

Somal eyed Charlie and spoke cautiously. “Financing of repairs and refitting can be arranged . . . if the prices are reasonable.”

Charlie nodded. “It's not in my best interests to gouge you. I need Andyne-­Borregga to at least break even, and if you're even partially successful against Lucius and his Syndonese allies—­well, we're back to the enemy-­of-­mine-­enemy thing.”

Dirkas said, “We also need weapons and armor for our troops.” His words mirrored those of Cahntu's on Istanna. “Can you supply that?”

Charlie had anticipated that. “I had heard that your ground forces were faltering as well for lack of equipment, so I've already started some things in motion. I can supply the arms, and introduce you to the ships and smugglers needed to run the Syndonese blockade and deliver them to your ­people. Again, nothing is free. But since you need a myriad of ser­vices we might consider a long-­term contract. I should be able to offer you a more attractive pricing structure because of the economies of scale involved.”

Somal merely smiled and sipped her brandy.

“One other thing,” Tarlo said. “We need experienced spacers, the military kind, not merchantmen. We're undermanned.”

That was something Charlie hadn't anticipated, and so he had to think carefully. “I cannot supply such directly, but are you familiar with the men who were in the Syndonese prison camps with the de Maris bastard?”

“The Two Thousand,” Somal said.

“Exactly! With the death of Cesare and the disappearance of his first son, Arthur, most refuse to support the new heir to the de Maris ducal seat. There are a few hundred stranded on Andyne-­Borregga, working at menial tasks. Given their historical dislike for your enemy, I'd think you'd have no trouble recruiting them. And I have ways of spreading the word to others that if they make their way to Andyne-­Borregga, they'll get a chance to fight the Syndonese.” Even as he said it, Charlie was thinking that he'd make sure they made their way to the space station.