Changer of Worlds

“I know. I know,” she agreed unhappily. And if Amanda didn’t get the word ahead of time, she almost certainly didn’t have time to warn anyone else before the shit hit the fan. Damn Saint-Just and his purges! All I needed was one more week, and Amanda would have known ahead of time.

“If Graveson didn’t get the word, then we can’t count on Capital Fleet at all,” she said aloud. “It’s almost certain that Saint-Just got the word to his SS units before anyone else in the Fleet realized what was happening. And if they’re just sitting there, cleared for action and ready to shoot, nobody could possibly come out on our side without being blown out of space before they even got their sidewalls up.”

“But at least they don’t seem to be coming in on Saint-Just’s side, either,” one of her other staffers pointed out.

“Of course not!” McQueen snorted. “You think anyone in StateSec is going to be crazy enough to let regular Navy units clear for action at a time like this? If they ever did manage to get their wedges and walls up, it’s a better than even bet that whoever they wound up shooting at, it wouldn’t be us!”

“Agreed.” Bukato nodded, but his face was tight with worry. “But it may not matter what the Fleet does. I don’t like the reports coming in from the western part of the city, Ma’am.”

“They’re not too good,” McQueen agreed, “but they’re actually better than I was afraid they might be.” She turned back to Caminetti. “What do we hear from General Conflans?”

“His last report was that all three battalions from the spaceport have come over, Ma’am,” the lieutenant replied quickly. “One of them is on its way here to reinforce the Octagon perimeter. The general is personally leading the other two to support Brigadier Henderson.”

“We just got word from Colonel Yazov, Admiral McQueen!”

McQueen turned towards the commander who had just entered the conference room, and despite the thick haze of tension hovering about her, she felt an undeniable urge to smile in satisfaction. One way or the other, no one in this room would ever use that stupid, sycophantic “Citizen” crap again, and it felt unspeakably good to put on the persona of an admiral once more instead of wearing the ill-fitting, quasi-civilian mask of secretary of war.

“The Colonel estimates that at least a third of the atmospheric defense units are coming over to our side,” the commander went on. “He says he thinks we can swing still more of them if we keep hammering away at our message. For now, he feels confident that he can at least keep any of the satellite bases from getting organized strike elements into the capital’s airspace.”

“And the units already in capital airspace that haven’t come over?” Bukato asked with poison dryness.

“Those the defensive grid will just have to handle,” McQueen told him. “And at least the bastards haven’t started lobbing nukes at us yet.”

“Yet,” Bukato agreed. “But do you really think Saint-Just won’t use them if he figures the situation is going south on him?”

“If he could get them through to the Octagon without major collateral damage, yes,” McQueen said. “I think he’d use them in a heartbeat under those circumstances. But as long as the grid is up, he’s not going to get through it with anything short of a saturation strike, and that would rip hell out of the entire city. After what happened last time, I don’t think he’ll dare take that chance. Our isolated neighborhood, yes; that he’d nuke. But not the city in general. After all, it won’t do him any good to kill all of us if the way he does it outrages the rest of the Fleet so badly that they’ll turn on him regardless of what his SS goons do. And it would, you know, Ivan.”

Bukato grunted. The sound could have indicated disagreement, but it didn’t. No one could be absolutely certain how the People’s Navy would respond to yet another, even more massive use of nuclear weapons in Nouveau Paris, but the admiral was almost positive that McQueen was correct. Too many millions of civilians had already been killed, and with all of the Committee except Saint-Just in McQueen’s hands, someone in the Fleet was virtually certain to take his chances on survival if he could only get a clean shot at the StateSec commander if Saint-Just was stupid enough to destroy another huge chunk of the capital.

“All right,” McQueen said crisply. “So far, except for Capital Fleet and the fact that we didn’t get Pierre or Saint-Just in our initial strikes, things seem to be going pretty much to plan. Ivan, I want you and Commodore Tillotson to stay in close communication with Conflans and Yazov. Captain Rubin, you’re in charge of the Octagon defense grid. If they don’t have our transponder codes, then they don’t cross the threshold into our airspace, understood?”

“Understood, Ma’am,” Rubin replied grimly.

“Major Adams, you’re in charge of coordinating our garrison units with the grid. Stay close to Captain Rubin and see to it that your man-portable air defense units are put in the best places to back up the grid.”

“Aye, Ma’am!” the Marine major barked.

“Ivan,” McQueen turned back to Bukato, “where did we stick Fontein?”

“We’ve got him under guard in your office, Ma’am.”

“My, how appropriate,” McQueen murmured, and even here, even now, one or two people surprised themselves by laughing aloud at her wicked smile. She grinned back at them, then gave her head a little toss. “I think we can safely say that friend Erasmus is a realist and a practical man,” she told Bukato. “He really does support the Revolution, but once he knows Pierre is gone, I suspect that we can swing him over to our side if we can convince him that Saint-Just is going down, too. Or at least into pretending that he’s come over to our side, which would be almost as good in the short term. If I can talk him into endorsing our broadcasts, we should be able to split StateSec between him and Saint-Just. At least, it would certainly hamper Saint-Just’s ability to deploy his damned intervention battalions!”

“I can’t fault that, Ma’am,” Bukato said, “but I’m afraid he may be just a bit harder to turn than that.”

“You may be right,” she replied much more grimly. “On the other hand, if I screw the muzzle of a pulser far enough into his ear, I think I can convince him to follow me anywhere.”

She smiled at her followers again, and this time there was no humor at all in her expression.

Oscar Saint-Just’s habitually expressionless face was carved granite as he sat in the office just off his emergency HQ and listened to the latest reports.

“Sir, the troops are getting worried!” a citizen brigadier half-blurted as he burst into the Citizen Secretary’s office. “They’re hearing rumors that the Citizen Chairman is—well—”

Saint-Just turned his head, and the panicky report slithered to a sudden stop as the citizen brigadier quailed before those icy, basilisk eyes. The officer swallowed hard, and Saint-Just let him sweat for perhaps fifteen seconds while he held him pinned under his pitiless gaze. Then he spoke, very coldly and precisely.

“The troops will do what they’re told to do, Citizen Brigadier. As will their officers. All of their officers. We are now operating under Case Horatius. You will so inform all unit commanders, and you will also inform them that any measures of summary justice they may feel are necessary are approved in advance. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” the citizen brigadier said quickly. He turned on his heel and hurried out of the office even more rapidly than he had entered it, and Saint-Just permitted himself a faint, bleak, death’s head grin. The citizen brigadier was an idiot if he hadn’t already figured out that Case Horatius was in effect. Although, in fairness, it might be shock rather than stupidity, for Esther McQueen had managed to take them all by surprise… again.

Saint-Just closed out the background chatter of combat reports and frantic requests for orders and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. What in God’s name had kicked the woman off now? Surely she had to have realized Rob wasn’t about to have her shot before he knew that the Manties and their allies really were on the ropes! Was it simply that she’d hoped to achieve surprise? If so, she’d succeeded, but for all the ferocious efficiency with which the first stage of her coup had been executed, it was obvious to Saint-Just that the follow-up stages were far less solid.

Not that they have to be all that solid, he admitted grimly to himself. The bitch got Rob. A fresh pain of purely personal anguish stabbed at him, and