To his relief, Victor discovered that the rendezvous with Walter Imbesi couldn't happen immediately, because of the Erewhonese magnate's other pressing business. He'd have a least a day or two of relative tranquility, before he had to board the shuttle for the space station which was Erewhon's most notorious tourist attraction, accompanied by two women both of whom seemed determined to kill him by public embarrassment.
Of course, Victor's definition of "tranquility" would have puzzled most people, who didn't associate the term with scheming and plotting and scurrying in the shadows. But that was a world which Victor had grown comfortable in, during the past several years.
Comfortable enough, even, to feel no particular qualms about entering a Manticoran-officered warship disguised as a customs official, early the following afternoon. And why should he? It wasn't technically a Manticoran warship, after all, and while Victor himself wasn't technically a customs official, the subterfuge had been approved by the niece of an Erewhonese magnate who, even though neither she nor he were technically officials in the Erewhonese government, didn't seem to have any trouble finding the necessary documents on very short notice.
Besides, Victor did know the basic procedures and lingo of customs officials; and, besides again, he wasn't in the least bit interested in either the Manticoran officers of the warship or the warship itself. Just one of the members of the crew. Any one of seventy-three percent of the members of the crew, for that matter.
And, in the event, his skulking mission proved simpler than Victor had dared hope. There was even a member of the crew who recognized him.
"Fancy meeting you here," drawled Donald X. "I won't bother to ask if Captain Zilwicki invited you aboard." He glanced at the far exit to the small mess compartment where he'd been sitting at a table. "Can you wait long enough to let me get out before you start blowing apart whoever it is you came here to blow apart?" After another quick glance around the compartment: "Which must be ethereal spirits, I guess." There was no one else in the compartment.
Victor was probably flushing, as much from irritation as embarrassment. Donald had been one of the Ballroom gunmen who'd observed Victor's berserk massacre of the StateSec squad and the Scrags searching for Helen Zilwicki in Chicago's underground ruins.
"Why are you complaining? I saved you some work."
"True enough," grunted Donald, smiling faintly. He clasped thick hands on the table before him, fingers intertwined. The hands and fingers were so thick that the resultant double fist looked almost the size of a ham. Donald X had come into the universe in Manpower's slave-breeding vats, bearing only the name-breeding number, more precisely-of F-67d-8455-2/5. The "F" prefix indicated a slave bred for a life of heavy manual labor. Donald had decided otherwise, years later, but his adult body still bore the imprint of that original intention. He was not excessively tall, but thick and muscular in every dimension.
"What can I do for you, Victor Cachat?"
"You remembered my name?"
Donald's thin smile widened a bit. "You're a very hard man to forget. And now, I ask again-" He unclasped his hands and raised one of them in a pacific gesture. "Easy, comrades, there's no problem."
Victor turned and saw that two other crewmen were standing in the hatchway he'd come through to enter the mess compartment. Also members of the Audubon Ballroom, obviously. Victor hadn't even heard them arrive, and reminded himself that he was dealing with people who were generally accounted the most dangerous terrorists in the galaxy.
Or "freedom fighters," depending on how you looked at the question.
Freedom fighters, Victor told himself firmly. He turned back to Donald and said: "I need to talk to Jeremy."
Donald shrugged. "Be difficult, that. Jeremy's somewhere else."
Victor wasn't surprised. It would have been blind luck to have found the head of the Ballroom conveniently located on Erewhon.
"I still need to talk to him, as soon as he can get here."
"Just like that, eh? And what, exactly, gives you the right to summon Jeremy?"
" 'Right' has nothing to do with it. The word is 'opportunity.' " He hesitated for an instant. But, then, remembering that Donald was close to Jeremy, added:
"How would you like a planet of your very own?"
Chapter 17
"Commander, it looks like Pottawatomie Creek is leaving her parking orbit."
Linda Watson turned towards the tactical section at Lieutenant Gohr's report. At least the lieutenant came closer to pronouncing the ship's outlandish name more or less correctly than most of Gauntlet's crew managed. That was Watson's first thought. Her second was to wonder just where Anton Zilwicki might be going.
Gauntlet's CIC had been keeping an unobtrusive eye on Zilwicki's frigate ever since the cruiser's arrival in-system. Not that anyone had asked them to. Officially, Ambassador Fraser had taken no notice whatsoever of the small warship. Perhaps she felt that if the Queen chose to put a thumb so publicly into the High Ridge Government's eye, then it was only tit for tat for her to give the back of her hand to Ruth Winton's taxi. Or, more probably, to the taxi driver, given how… unpopular one Anton Zilwicki had managed to make himself with the Government.
Captain Oversteegen, however, had taken it upon himself to stay quietly current on both the vessel and her passengers' itineraries. Neither of which had suggested that Pottawatomie Creek might be going anywhere.
Zilwicki was under no requirement to keep Gauntlet apprised of his schedule. As a private citizen of Star Kingdom, he was free to come and go as he chose. Moreover, although Pottawatomie Creek might be Manticoran-built, she was officially registered in the Alizon System. It was only a legal fiction, perhaps, but appearances had to be maintained where what amounted to a vest-pocket privateer was concerned.
Given who one of Pottawatomie Creek's passengers was, however…
She touched a com stud on the arm of her command chair.
"Captain speakin'," a voice said almost instantly in her ear bug.
"It's the exec, Sir. Sorry to disturb you, but our friend with the unpronounceable name appears to be leaving orbit."
"She does, does she?" There were perhaps three seconds of silence, then: "Have Lieutenant Cheney hail her, Linda. Tell her t' ask-politely, mind you-if I might have a few moments of Captain Zilwicki's time. If he accepts the request, put it through t' my quarters, please."
"Yes, Sir." Commander Watson released the communications stud and turned towards Gauntlet's com officer with the rather wistful thought that she wished she could be a fly on the captain's bulkhead during that conversation.
Abraham Templeton listened for a few seconds to the voice murmuring in his earbug. Then, nodding, turned to his cousin Gideon.
"Ezekiel is reporting back from the spaceport. He was able to bribe someone and get a look at Zilwicki's dispatch to Traffic Central. There's no final destination listed, but Zilwicki did inform Erewhon's traffic control that he was going to be leaving orbit. That's definite. And he didn't ask for a new one anywhere else, either."
Gideon pursed his lips, staring at one of the walls of the suite in the Sudsoccupied by himself and his unit of Masadan and Scrag mercenaries.
"He's leaving the system entirely, then." He cocked his head toward Abraham, without moving his eyes from the wall. "And it's also definite-yes?-that Zilwicki's daughter and my sister have remained behind."