David Weber - The Shadow of Saganami

He stopped and watched while Nagchaudhuri played back the recording through his own earbug. Then the com officer nodded.

"Clear copy, Skipper."

"Go ahead and send it," Terekhov said.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"What are you going to do, Boss?" Luis Palacios asked.

"I don't rightly know," Stephen Westman replied. It wasn't an admission he would-or could-have made to anyone else.

The two of them sat under the aspens outside the hidden mouth of the MIM's cave headquarters, gazing across the small mountain valley. The air was cooler than it had been, and the brisk, elusive smell of autumn was approaching. Palacios' jaw worked steadily, rhythmically, on a chew of backy while they listened to the wind, whispering in the leaves, and silence fell between them once more.

It was a comfortable silence. The silence of a leader and his follower. Of two old friends. And of a patron and the old and faithful retainer who'd long since earned the right to speak his own mind. And who knew now, at this moment, that there was no need for him to do so.

Westman sat in that silence, and the brain behind his blue eyes was busy.

How had it come to this? He could look back and see every step, every decision, and, truth to tell, he had no regrets even now. In fact-his lips twitched as he remembered barefooted off-worlders in their underwear limping off down a mountain trail-some of it had been just plain fun .

But then the temptation to smile faded. It wasn't that he was no longer prepared to fight, to die-even to kill-for what he believed was right. It wasn't even that he was no longer prepared to take Luis and his other followers with him. It was that he was no longer confident that what he had believed in was right.

There. He'd admitted it. He had doubts. Not about whether or not the RTU had cheated and abused Montana. Not about whether or not that arrogant bastard Van Dort should've told Suzanne the truth about his prolong before he trapped her into marriage. And certainly not about how far he was prepared to go to prevent the organized rape of his planet by greedy, corrupt off-worlders. But…

But what if they weren't greedy, corrupt off-worlders, out to clearcut his world and turn all its citizens into debt-enslaved peons on the planet their ancestors had made their home? What if he had permitted his hatred for Rembrandt to automatically extend itself to anyone Rembrandt-and Van Dort-thought good? And what if-most disturbing thought of all, in oh, so many ways-he had been wrong about Bernardus Van Dort himself?

Surely not! Surely he couldn't have been wrong about all of that! But, the same stubborn integrity which had turned him into a guerrilla demanded insistently, what if he had? And, that dogged integrity insisted, it was possible. After all, what did he actually know about the Star Kingdom of Manticore? Nothing, when it came down to it. Only that its vast wealth was based on its shipping and astrographic advantages, and that had only resonated in his own mind with Rembrandt's position in the Cluster. He knew it was a kingdom, with a hereditary queen and an aristocracy, and that was enough to raise any good Montanan's hackles. Yet if Van Dort and the Manticoran captain, Terekhov, were to be believed, it was the selfish resistance of oligarchs like Aleksandra Tonkovic which was stalling the annexation. And if the Star Kingdom was what Westman feared, why should -someone like Tonkovic resist the Constitution proposed by Joachim Alquezar and Henri Krietzmann? And, for that matter, what could a Dresdener possibly have in common with one of the wealthiest oligarchs San Miguel-charter partner in the RTU-had ever produced?

Face it, Stevie, he told himself, this mess is a whole bunch more complicated than you thought it was when you decided to jump right in like the hard-assed, stubborn, always-sure-you-know-all-the-answers country boy jackass you've always been.

Even as he thought it, he knew he was being unfair to himself.

But not very, his stubborn doubt insisted. Sure, a man has to take a stand for what he knows is right, and it's too late to take a stand after the fight's already lost. But a man ought to be certain he knows what he's fighting against-not just what he's fighting for-before he gets ready to kill people, or asks people who trust him to kill people. And what if you don't like Van Dort? Nobody says you have to. He doesn't even say you have to. Hell, Trevor says I should listen to him, and he was Suzanne's brother!

He frowned, remembering, once again seeing his best friend's glamorous older sister through the adoring eyes of a small boy. What had he been? Ten? No, he doubted he'd been even that old. But he remembered the day Suzanne left with her wealthy off-world husband. He remembered the day Trevor told him Suzanne's husband would live a thousand years, while she grew old and died. And he remembered the day-no little boy, now, but a man grown, a man of the Founding Families-when Suzanne came back to Montana to explain why her precious, treacherous husband was trying to make all the rest of the Cluster the economic slaves of Rembrandt.

His jaw clenched as he relived that moment of betrayal. The instant he realized that somehow Suzanne had been changed. That the strong, magnificent person he remembered had been brainwashed into spouting the Rembrandt line. And then the even worse betrayal, when she died. Died before she had time to come to her senses and realize how she'd been used.

He remembered it all, so clearly. Was it truly possible he'd perceived it all wrongly?

No. Van Dort himself admitted Rembrandt had been committed to building its economy at everyone else's expense. But the reason for it… Was it possible he was also telling the truth about his reasons for it? And about the reasons he'd abandoned fifty T-years of consistent policy when another opportunity offered?

And did it really matter why Van Dort had done what he'd done?

"I expect I'll meet with them again, after all, Luis," he said, finally.

"Figured you might, Boss," Palacios said, as if fifteen seconds and not fifteen minutes had passed between question and answer.

He spat backy juice, and then the two of them sat silently once more, gazing out over the valley.

"He says he'll meet with you," Trevor Bannister said.

"Under the same conditions?" Terekhov asked.

"Well, it seems to've worked last time," Bannister said with a shrug. Then his expression changed, ever so slightly. "One thing, though. He seems pretty insistent that your midshipwoman-Ms. Zilwicki, was it?-come along again."

"Ms. Zilwicki?" Almost unconsciously, Terekhov looked up from his com to where Helen sat side-by-side with Ragnhild Pavletic, watching Abigail Hearns demonstrate something at Tactical. Then he looked back at Bannister. "Did he say why?"

"No, he didn't. Might be I could guess, but I expect you'd do better asking Van Dort." Bannister paused, then continued grudgingly. "One thing I can tell you, though. If he's asking you to bring Ms. Zilwicki along, it damned sure means he's not planning anything… untoward."

Terekhov started to ask what he meant, then changed his mind, remembering Van Dort's cryptic comments about his personal history with Bannister. There was something going on here, and if it meant one of his officers-especially one of his -midshipmen-might be being placed in danger, it was his responsibility to find out what that something was. But if Helen would have been endangered by it, Bernardus would have told him. Of that much, he was certain.

"Tell Mr. Westman his word is sufficient bond for me. Mr. Van Dort and I will meet him at any time or place of his choosing. And if he wishes Ms. Zilwicki to be present, I'm sure that can be arranged, also."