Ghost War

What it took Bernard some time to figure out was that this new wave of strikes, which came very thick over the next three days, might have hurt Emblyn a little, but they really damaged the government. Officials had been standing up to say that they would protect the citizenry, but all of a sudden attacks were happening all over the place. Because they came off at night, people tended to stay home, which put a damper on most of the nightlife economy. Companies that did not believe the government could protect them took to posting their hours of business very prominently. As one entrepreneur put it, “We can remodel and rebuild, but we don’t want to do so after funerals.”

The Germayne government immediately authorized overtime for constables and the Public Safety Department. Officials said they’d sent requests for assistance to The Republic’s Planetary Legate, Tawa

Society did begin to crack openly under the pressure. Charity, which had spiked when the LIT campaign began, started to tail off as people hoarded things against the uncertainty of the future. There was no way they could know if they would be the next victim, so they weren’t donating money and, since they really didn’t want to expose themselves to danger, many stopped volunteering their time. Moreover, because the rich in the Heights had been the target of an attack, they resented the terrorists and felt that since, clearly, none of their “own” would be part of such a group, it was war on their class and they sought to retain what they already possessed. The lower classes began to keep to themselves, with each cultural population segregating itself to its own neighborhoods and businesses.

Even Ring Emblyn’s charity efforts shrank. He focused on taking care of the people who had worked for him and had been subject to attack. This still played well in the press, but instead of folks thanking him for his generosity, it was folks in his employ thanking him for his “loyalty.” While that’s not a bad trait, it does draw a line between us and them, and the thems often don’t like being on the outside.

About the only person who came out smelling like a rose was Bianca. The Basalt Foundation moved quickly, cutting deals to supply people with everything they needed to survive the sudden loss of their jobs—regardless of cultural heritage. While the absolute numbers were relatively small, every single one of them was a wonderful media filler piece. Smiling faces on folks laden with armsful of clothing, toiletries and treats, singing the praises of Bianca Germayne, played very well, especially when counterpointed against local government officials saying that everyone would have to tighten their belts and pull together until the crisis passed.

Gypsy realized the full import of the attack on me. He already knew I’d betrayed Bernard’s plans to him, but that my usefulness as a double agent was limited. We had to assume that, one way or another, Bernard would be keeping tabs on me. My job, then, was to keep out of sight to make him use resources to find me, or become very visible. Gypsy, by having others watch me, would be able to pick up on Bernard’s agents, identify them, and set them up for neutralization.

Either strategy would work for Gypsy, but both of them meant I was out of play. It made sense, since I’d been compromised. Gypsy, based on target selections, was keeping with the overall LIT plan, but I hated not being informed about what was going on. Gypsy was, after all, a mercenary. If Emblyn started pressuring him from above and Catford from below, he might decide to kick things into high gear and a lot of things would be laid waste that didn’t need to be. In essence, with Alba vanishing from Bernard’s camp, and my being ostracized from Emblyn’s camp, the folks most likely to apply the brakes were gone.

I opted for the plan that would make me very visible. I had to because going to ground meant I’d have even less of a chance of knowing what was going on. In addition, having me wandering about would give Bernard more to think about, and that might slow him down. It would also keep Niemeyer happy since he didn’t have to go digging for me. Lastly, by being visible, it was possible for me to make reports.

The dead-drop I’d used with Alba was not the only one I employed. Prior to coming to Basalt I was given information on a number of dead-drops that The Republic had already established on the world. While it might have seemed unusual for a government to be setting up procedures that allowed their agents to spy on the citizenry, in essence they were just pla

When I reached Basalt I scouted the sites and then made a wrong-number call that activated a run on the notification target. Basically I made a call to someone, asked for Mr. Arkadis, and was told there was no one of that name there. I said, “This must have been his old number.” They said, “We’ve had this number for twenty years.” I said, “Oh, my mistake. Happens when you’re older than The Republic.” Whoever I spoke to would relay that conversation to others, then orders would be given to check a drop target. No one had a clue as to who I was, and I didn’t know who they were, and that kept us all safe.

The reports I’d sent back had been pretty basic: just identifying people, trends and so on. I had little time for in-depth analysis, but I did note that both sides seemed to have enough people for a decent shooting war. In my latest report I noted that unless Bernard was able to activate the Basalt Militia, the edge in military strength would go to Emblyn. The losses sustained at the Palace coupled with Alba’s disappearance put Bernard at a severe disadvantage. I would have liked a company of Lament on planet to use to curb him when, not if, push came to shove.

I put that into my last report. I had no idea if any of my reports had even made it off Basalt.

I left the Grand Germayne and made some basic checks to see if I was being followed. I didn’t think I was, but aborted my run to the dead-drop. Something didn’t feel right, and I wasn’t certain if it was external or internal.

Instead of doing my ghostly business, I headed to one of the Basalt Foundation relief centers. It would have been easy to talk myself into believing I was going there to get a feel for the social impact of LIT, but I knew that was a lie. I was playing puppetmaster, and things were going along too well. I didn’t have a co

And I wanted to see, firsthand, how Bianca handled the enormous pressure she was under.

I asked for Bianca and was directed to the large commercial kitchen where meals were being prepared for later in the day. The dining hall could seat five hundred at a time, and a schedule on the wall showed they had four seatings spaced forty-five minutes apart. People had already lined up for the first seating, and they looked to be a mix from all cultures and almost all social classes.

As foretold, Bianca was in the kitchen and so was Quam. Even Snookums was there, sitting on a stainless-steel table. He had a little chef’s mushroom-cap on his head and growled when he saw me. Quam, who was chopping black mushrooms with a nimble facility flicked a sliver of fungus to the dog, which it snapped out of the air and quieted down.

Bianca smiled. “Sam, what brings you here? Do I see the last of a bruise on your face? What happened?”