Changer of Worlds

using Manpower and their local Scrag cult to do the wet work will distract suspicion from us. We Havenites do, after all, have our hands cleaner than anybody else on that score. That much is not a lie.”

Victor felt a little warmth coming back into his heart. “Or, at least, we did until Durkheim started mucking Playing games with that scum,” snarled Usher.

For a minute, the citizen colonel looked like he might spit on the floor. But, he didn’t. For all the modest size and furnishings of the apartment, it was spotlessly clean and well kept. Whatever Victor thought of Usher’s wife’s occupation—and Usher’s relationship to her, for that matter, which still shocked his puritanical soul— slatternliness obviously didn’t extend into their own home.

But Victor didn’t dwell on that. He’d lost enough heroes for one day, and firmly decided that he wasn’t going to pass any judgments on Usher or his wife until he was certain that he was capable of judging anything correctly. Which, going by the evidence, he most certainly wasn’t yet.

So, struggling, he tried to keep his mind focused narrowly. “What you’re saying, in other words, is that by going completely outside the loop and using Manpower and the Scrags to do the dirty work—and tangling a Manty agent up with them—Durkheim can get rid of Parnell and Bergren both. And maybe even keep Haven from taking the blame.”

Usher nodded. It was Victor’s turn to shake his head. “All right. That much I can follow. But there are still two things I don’t understand. First, why would Manpower agree? They hate our guts!”

The answer came to Victor before he even finished the question. The cold and pitiless look on Usher’s face may have helped. “Oh, shit,” Victor groaned, lapsing for a moment into profanity.

“Yeah, you got it, lad. Of course, whether or not Durkheim will be able to come through with his promise is another thing—Saint-Just will have to sign onto it—but don’t doubt for a minute what the promise was. You do this for us and we’ll look the other way, from now on, whenever Manpower starts extending the slave trade into our space.”

Victor was mute. Perhaps out of kindness, Usher prompted him off the subject. “What was the other question?”

Victor swallowed, trying to focus his mind on top of heartbreak. “Yeah. You seem to have figured it all out—and you even said it was brilliant—but then you also said Durkheim was an idiot. So I’m confused about what you really—”

Usher snorted. “Oh, hell—Victor, for Christ’s sake! Grow up! Hanging onto illusions is one thing. I’ll forgive you for that, easily enough.” For a moment, he looked uncomfortable. Then, shrugged. “Truth is, if I hadn’t realized you had those illusions I wouldn’t be talking to you in the first place.”

The soft moment passed. The cold and pitiless look was back. “But there’s no excuse for plain stupidity. You’re supposed to be a field agent, dammit! Durkheim’s complicated scheme is right out of the book. You know, the one titled: ‘Harebrained Schemes Hatched by Desk Pilots Who Don’t Know a Dead Drop From a Hole in the Ground.’ ”

Victor couldn’t help laughing. In that moment, Usher reminded him of one of his instructors. A sarcastic and experienced field man, who had peppered his lectures with anecdotes. Half of which, at least, had been on the subject of desk pilots and their harebrained schemes.

Usher sat back down on the couch and shook his head wearily. “Every single damned thing in Durkheim’s plot is going to go wrong, Victor. Trust me. The man forgets he’s dealing with real people instead of ideological abstractions. And real people have this nasty habit of not quite fitting properly into their assigned pigeonholes.”

Usher leaned forward, sticking up his right thumb. “The first thing that’s going to go wrong already has, and don’t think for a moment even Durkheim isn’t nervous about it. I’ll bet you any amount of money you choose that he expected Manpower would use some of their own professionals to do the dirty work with the kid. Instead, no doubt because they want to keep their distance in case the thing goes sour—no idiots there—they turned it over to the Scrags they keep on their leash. They’ll save their pros for the attacks on Parnell and Bergren.”

He squinted at Victor. “Do you really know anything about the Scrags?”

Victor started to give a vigorous, even belligerent, affirmative response, but hesitated. Other than a lot of abstract ideological notions about fascistic believers in a master race—

“No,” he said firmly.

“Good for you, lad,” chuckled Usher. “Okay, Victor. Forget everything you may have heard. The fundamental thing you’ve got to understand about the Scrags is that they’re a bunch of clowns.” He waved a hand. “Oh, yeah, sure. Murderous clowns. Perfect physical specimens, bred and trained to be supreme warriors. Eat nails, can walk through walls, blah blah blah. The problem is, the morons believe it too. Which means they’re as careless as five year olds, and never think to plan for the inevitable screw-ups. Which there always are, in any plan—much less one as elaborate as this scheme of Durkheim’s. So they’re going to foul up, somewhere along the line, and Durkheim’s going to be scrambling to patch the holes. The problem is, since he organized this entire thing outside of SS channels, he doesn’t have a back-up team in place and ready to go. He’ll have to jury-rig one. Which is something you never want to do in a situation as”—another dry chuckle—“as ‘fraught with danger,’ as they say, as this one.”

He held up the thumb of his left hand. “And the other thing that’s going to go wrong—this one is guaranteed, and it’s a real lulu—is that the Manty officer he selected to be the official patsy in the scheme is going to tear him a new asshole.” Usher pressed the palms of his hands to his temples. The gesture combined utter exasperation with fury. “In the name of God! Bad enough Durkheim screws around with a Manty’s kid. But Zilwicki’s?” He drove up onto his feet. “What a cretin!”

Victor stared at him. He was acquainted with Anton Zilwicki, in the very casual way that two intelligence officers belonging to nations at war encounter each other at social functions in the capital of a neutral state, but the ‘acquaintance’ was extremely distant. Thinking about it, Victor could only summon up two impressions of the man. Physically, Zilwicki had a rather peculiar physique. Almost as wide, he seemed, as he was tall. And, from his accent, he came from the highlands of Gryphon.

Victor frowned. “I don’t quite understand, Kevin. Zilwicki’s not a field agent. He’s an analyst. Specializes in technical stuff. Software, as a matter of fact. The guy’s basically a computer geek. He’s the one who tries to find out how much tech transfer we’re getting from the Sollies.”

Usher snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Durkheim was thinking. But you’re forgetting three other things about him. First of all, the kid’s mother was Helen Zilwicki, who was posthumously awarded Manticore’s Parliamentary Medal of Honor for hammering one of our task forces half-bloody with a vastly inferior force of her own.”

Victor was still frowning. Usher sighed. “Victor, do you really think a woman like that married a wimp?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Second, he’s from the Gryphon highlands. And while I think those highlanders are possibly the galaxy’s all time political morons—they hate the aristocracy so they put their faith in Aristocrat Number One—you won’t find anywhere a more maniacal set of feudists. Talk about stupid! Snatching one of their kids, in the scale of intelligence, ranks right up there with snatching a tiger’s cub.”

He slapped his hands together and rubbed them, in that mock-gleeful way of saying: oh, yes—here comes the best part! “And—just to put the icing on the cake—Anton Zilwicki may not be a field agent but he’s hardly your typical desk pilot either.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the young SS officer. “You’ve met him?” Victor nodded. Usher put his hand at shoulder level. “Short fellow, ’bout yay tall.” He spread his arms wide, cupping the hands. “And about yay wide.”

He dropped his arms. “The reason for that build is because he’s a weightlifter. Good enough that he could probably compete in his weight class in the Terran Olympics, which are still the top athletic contest in the settled portion of the universe.”

Usher frowned. “The truth is, though, he probably ought to give it up. Since his wife died, he’s become a bit of a monomaniac about the weightlifting. I imagine it’s his way of trying to control his grief. But by now he’s