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Gruber would yield to the threat. Not gracefully, but he would yield. No sane man would do otherwise once the fate of Homeworld became known.
Gruber would surrender. The single most commonly known fact about Beckhart was that he was a man of his word with a threat. He would use the bomb if refused. But McCle
"Where's Jarl?" he asked. He wondered how effectively his orders had been carried out after he had alerted the fleet. Well, probably. Amy was carrying on like they were the only red pass people left.
Tears rolled as she replied, "He's dead, Moyshe. He killed himself. Only about fifteen minutes ago. I got away while they were distracted."
"While who was distracted?"
"The military police."
So. That roadblock had been a setup. And Jarl, intuiting Beckhart's thrust, had gone the only way he could to avoid checkmate.
And Amy intended eliminating another information source. Him.
Where was the harvestfleet? Had Beckhart gotten his bluff in on Payne too?
Then what would Amy do about herself? Put a lasebolt through her own brain? She was capable. She seemed a bit self-destructive.
What if Beckhart's claims about a centerward race were valid? That meant the whole human race, as well as several neighboring races, were threatened with extinction.
It seemed a lot more than Seiner freedom lay on the line.
The weight of the decision he had to make seemed as heavy as that Atlas had borne. Heavier. Hundreds of worlds might depend upon his choice... Ambergris and the Stars' End weapons. They might make all the difference.
What to do?
He leaned against Jellyroll's leg and stared at the symbols of the sides of his conflict. Which should he betray? Which should he destroy?
It was in his hands alone now, and there was no evading the decision. He could not let it ride in hopes it would sort itself out. No god from a machine would swing down on a wire to relieve him of his burden.
He had always had a yearning to become a hero, even for the few shooting star moments Confederation culture allowed. He would become one to the trillions if he delivered Stars' End and its arsenal. He would stand beside Jupp von Drachau, destroyer of Sangaree... But that would make him Iscariot to millions of Starfishers.
His fingertips sensually caressed his weapon. There lay all solutions. In the gun. The final argument. In the words of ancient Mao, "All power comes from the mouth of a gun." War and violence, he thought. A certain breed claimed they solved nothing. Those folks ignored the fact that dead men seldom argued.
He remembered a small Ulantonid nun, seen in passing in the Blake City spaceport on Carson's an eon ago, while he and Mouse had been waiting to join the Starfishers. She had served a dead man...
He was vacillating. Avoiding decision. Riding a period of stability for all it was worth.
One squeeze of a trigger would settle a trillion fates. His friend? Or Amy, his love?
Those symbols remained as motionless as the man between whose legs McCle
Mouse had, McCle
He had been immune for so long...
Amy was pale and growing paler. She had had time to think, to see some of the possibilities, and to grow scared. Her gun hand quivered.
Mouse began moving, almost imperceptibly bringing his stu
"Wait!" McCle
They looked at him, their faces grave and baffled.
His finger danced on his stu
He scrambled down, collected weapons, stu
He had to keep the three of them out of the way while he twisted the Admiral's tail. Maybe he could salvage something for everybody, though Beckhart would resent it all to hell.
But, dammit! It wasn't necessary to have big wi
Beckhart would give in if he could not catch up fast enough. He had to have those coordinates soon, or see his whole intrigue blow up in his face.
McCle
She would come out of this hating him, but by doing it this way he would give her more than he ever could with love.
He searched his mind for signs of instability. All the gears were in place and working smoothly. Some sort of balance had been achieved. Not a natural one, but one that looked good for a while. He was now a little of everyone he had ever been, and a little more, too.
He hoped it would last long enough.
Eighteen: 3050 AD
The Main Sequence
"What the hell is going on, Damon?" Beckhart's voice had a saw-toothed edge. "Storm and the Sangaree woman were in that park. Storm called to say he was going in after her. McCle
"I don't know, sir," the Major confessed. "We went in as soon as we knew where to look. They weren't there anymore."
"No shit? You're aware that three of those people are professionals, aren't you?"
"Yes sir. And two of them are ours, with no reason to run."
"One of them. I'm not sure what McCle
Beckhart massaged his forehead. He was growing a bitch of a headache. Just when it looked like he had it nailed down... He had to snag Thomas or his woman before Gruber called his bluff. He had to show at the Yards before the harvestfleets extricated themselves from the standoff at Stars' End. He had to move before the Sangaree raidfleet learned about Homeworld.
"Why the hell did that idiot Kindervoort have to go and kill himself?"
"He evidently had strong feelings."
"They're a stiff-necked mob. I've never figured them out. That damned Payne is still up there making nasty talk. With three squadrons sitting on his back."
"Just pride talking, sir."
"We screwed up, Damon. If we don't find those people, alive, we're had. We. Do I make myself clear?"
"Abundantly, Admiral. I've got all my men digging. The local police don't have any decent tracking gear, but it's still only a matter of time."
"The shorter the time, the better, Major. High Command is breathing down my neck. The CSN has a personal stake in what we're doing. He isn't very fond of me. So don't forget that water and horseshit both go downhill."