in to some of the hardened enterprises; he was already planning for after the end of the world, the bloody-minded little wimp. The chief just nodded, assigned Belga and the wimp to look into the possibility. She checked the Domestic Intelligence report off her copy of the agenda.
“Ma’am?” Belga Underville raised a hand. “I do have one more item I’d like to bring up.”
“Certainly.”
Underville brushed her eating hands nervously across her mouth. She was committed now. Damn. If only the Finance Minister weren’t here. “I—Ma’am, in the past you have been very, um, generous in your management of subordinate operations. You give us the job, and let us do it. I have been very grateful for that. Recently though, and very likely this is without your precise knowledge, people from your inner staff have been making unscheduled visits”—midnight raids, actually—“on domestic sites in my area of responsibility.”
General Smith nodded. “The Lighthill team.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Your own children, running around as though they werethe King’s Inspectors General. They were full of crazy, irrational demands, shutting down good projects, removing some of her best people. More than anything, it made her suspect that the chief’s crazy husband still had great influence. Belga hunkered down on her perch. She really didn’t have to say more. Victory Smith knew her well enough to see she was upset.
“On these inspection visits, did Lighthill find anything significant?”
“In one case, ma’am.” One fairly serious problem that Belga was sure she would have pounced on herself inside of another ten days. Around the table, Underville could see that most of the others were simply surprised by the complaint. Two nodded faintly in her direction—she already knew about them. Thract tapped an angry tattoo on the table; he seemed about to jump into the fray. It was no surprise that he had been targeted by the chief’s nepotistic crew, butplease God, grant him the cleverness to keep hismaw shut. Thract was already in such poor standing that his support would be about as much help as a steel anvil to a racing-climber.
The chief inclined her head, waited a polite moment for anyone else to comment. Then, “Colonel Underville, I understand that this can hurt your people’s morale. But we are entering very critical times, far deadlier than a declared war. I need special assistants, ones who can act very quickly and who I understand completely. The Lighthill team acts directly for me. Please tell me if you feel their behavior is out of line—but I ask you to respect their delegated authority.” Her tone seemed sincerely regretful, but the words were uncompromising; Smith was changing policy of decades’ standing. Belga had the sinking feeling that the chief knew all her cobblies’ depredations.
The Finance Minister had looked almost bored so far. Nizhnimor was a war hero; she had walked through the Dark with Sherkaner Underhill. You might forget that when you saw her; Amberdon Nizhnimor had spent all the decades of this generation climbing up the Other Side of the royal service, as a court politician and arbitrator. She dressed and moved like an old coot; Nizhnimor was a cartoon caricature of a Finance Minister. Big, lank, frail. Now she leaned forward. Her wheezy voice sounded as harmless as she looked. “I fear this is all a bit outside my realm. But I do have some advice. Though we can’t have a Plebiscite, we are very much at war. Internal to the government, we are moving to a war footing. Normal chains of appeal and review are in suspension. Given this extraordinary situation, it’s important for you to realize that both I and—more importantly—the King have complete faith in General Smith’s leadership. You all know that the chief of Intelligence has special prerogatives. This is not outmoded tradition, ladies and gentleman. This is considered, royal policy, and you must all accept it.”
Wow. So much for “frail” finance ministers. There were sober nods from all around the table and no one had anything more to say, least of all Belga Underville. In a strange way, Belga felt better for getting so definitively squashed. Things might be on a road straight to Hell, but she didn’t have to worry about who was on the driver’s perch.
After a moment, General Smith returned to her agenda. “…We have one item left. It is also the most critical problem we’re up against. Colonel Thract, will you tell us about the Southland situation?” Her tone was courteous, almost sympathetic. Nevertheless, poor Thract was in for it.
But Thract showed some hardshell. He bounced off his perch and walked briskly to the podium. “Minister. Ma’am.” He nodded at Nizhnimor and the chief. “We believe the situation has stabilized somewhat in the last fifteen hours.” He poked up the recon pictures that Belga had seen him studying before the meeting. Much of Southland was shrouded in a swirl of storm, but the launch sites were high in the Dry Mountains and mostly visible. Thract tapped away at his pictures, analyzing the supply situation. “The long-range Southlander rockets are liquid fueled, very fragile things. Their parliament has seemed insanely bellicose these last few days—their ‘Ultimatum for Cooperative Survival,’ for instance—but in fact, we don’t think that more than a tenth of their rockets are launch- ready. It will take three or four days for them to get all the tanks topped off.”
Belga: “That seems awfully stupid on their part.”
Thract nodded. “But remember, their parliamentary system makes them less decisive than either us or the Kindred. These people have been tricked into thinking that they must either fight a war now, or be murdered in their sleep. The Ultimatum may have been a mistake in timing, but it was also an attempt by some in Parliament to make the prospect of war so frightening that their colleagues would back down.”
The Director of Air Defense: “So you figure things will stay peaceful until they complete fueling?”
“Yes. The crunch will be the Parliament meeting at Southmost in four days. That’s where they review our response—if we’ve made one—to the Ultimatum.”
The wimp from Public Relations asked, “Why not just accede to their demands? They aren’t asking for territory. We are so strong that giving in would scarcely be a loss of prestige.”
There was a rattle of indignation from around the table. General Smith answered in terms a good deal milder than the question merited. “Unfortunately, it’s not a matter of prestige. The Southland Ultimatum requires us to weaken several of our military arms. In fact, I doubt that it would make the Southlanders any safer in their deepnesses—but it would increase our vulnerability to a Kindred first strike.”
Chezny Neudep, Director of Rocket Offense: “Indeed. Now the Southlanders are simply Kindred puppets. Pedure and her bloodsuckers must be happy. No matter how this comes out, they win.”
“Maybe not,” said Minister Nizhnimor. “I know many of the top Southlanders; they are not evil, or insane, or incompetent. We have come down to a matter of trust here. The King is willing to go to Southmost for this next meeting of the Southlander Parliament, and stay there for the remainder of this session. It’s hard to imagine a greater expression of trust on our part—and I think the Southlanders will accept it, no matter what Pedure may wish.”
Of course, this is what Kings were for. Nevertheless, the Minister’s offer was a shock; even “Old Megadeath” Neudep seemed taken aback. “Ma’am… I know it’s the King’s power to do such things, but I can’t agree that this is a problem of trust. Certainly, there are honorable people in high positions in the South. A year ago, the Southland was nearly an ally. We had sympathizers at all levels of government. Colonel Thract told us that we had—to be blunt—spiesin positions of power there. If not for that, I don’t think General Smith ever would have encouraged the technical growth of Southland…. But in less than a year, it seems we have lost all our advantage there. What I see now is a state thoroughly infiltrated by the Kindred. Even if the majority of Parliament is honorable,it doesn’t matter. “ Neudep shot two arms in Thract’s direction. “Your analysis, Colonel?”
Blame-assignment time. It had been part of each of the recent staff meetings, and each time Thract had been more the target.
Thract gave a little bow in Megadeath’s direction. “Sir, your assessment is generally correct, though I see little infiltration of the Southland rocket forces, per se. We had a friendly government there—and one that I would swear was carefully ‘instrumented’ with Accord agents. The Kindred were active, but we had them stymied. Then, step by step, we lost ground. At first, it was bungled surveillance, then fatal accidents, then assassinations we weren’t quick enough to block. Lately there have been trumped-up criminal prosecutions…. Our enemy is clever.”
“So the Honored Pedure is a genius beyond our ken?” asked the Director of Air Defense. Sarcasm dripped.
Thract was silent for a moment. His eating hands twisted back and forth. At earlier meetings, this was where he would counterattack with statistics and fine new projects. Now—something seemed to break inside him. Belga Underville had counted Thract as a bureaucratic enemy ever since the chief’s children were kidnapped, but now she felt embarrassed for him. When Thract finally spoke, his voice came out an anguished squeak. “No!Don’t you know I… I’ve had friends die; I’ve lost others because I began mistrusting them. For a long time, I thought there must be a Kindred agent high in my own organization. I shared critical information with fewer and fewer
