Star Vigilante (Vigilante Series) (21 page)

He grinned suddenly. “Hey
Mata Hari
,
you ever poked a stick in an ant pile? Just to see what happens?”

Silence. “Noooo.” His symbiont felt puzzlement, her persona playing hide-and-seek at the edge of Matt’s mind like sunbeams breaking through the clouds. “Why? What relationship does investigating the Stripper have to do with irritating the communal lives of an Earth-evolved insect population?”

God, if only Eliana were here. She’d understand. “Plenty. Thermonuclear option approved. Ready for Orders?”

“Ready.” No persona-image filled his mind as the AI sulked over his failure to provide details about the utility of poking a stick into an ant pile.

“Launch one of our hypersonic missiles—with a three-megaton warhead set for atmospheric detonation at ten kilometers altitude. As you suggested, aim it to the southeast of the Stripper, at a near-horizon angle that will allow us to intercept the neutrinos after they pass through the Stripper.” Matt paused, thinking furiously. “Hold on! Give the Administrator of Mother Tree Xylene a two-minute warning—we don’t want the Derindl blinded by accidentally looking at the fireball. Understood?”

“Understood,”
Mata Hari
said, her voice tone sounding mollified now that he’d adopted her tactical suggestion. More sunbeams broke through the cloud. “Later, you must share with me the thought processes you used to reach this decision.” Mata Hari’s
amber-skinned face peeked out from the cloud, peering hopefully at him.

Inside, Matt smiled at the return of his partner’s persona-image. Would a “hunch” qualify as a formal thought process? Over the PET relay, he felt his partner go rooting through the databyte nanocubes stored in his prefrontal cortex, looking for a definition of hunch. “Patience,
Mata Hari
,
you can analyze human intuition modes at a later date.” The Mata Hari face sighed dramatically. He chuckled. “Execute on my mark. And Mata Hari—don’t put through to me any appeals from Autarch Dreedle—before the detonation. But I will take comsat-relayed calls afterward. Clear?”

“Understood. Complying.” Matt’s skin, his ship skin, shuddered as part of itself sped away, clawing for a ballistic arc and a point lying eighty kilometers southeast of them. “Mark, one minute, fifty-six seconds and—”

The Spine slidedoor opened behind him. From the Pit, Matt glanced back.

Eliana wobbled in on weak legs, dressed in halter top and shorts, her right shoulder encased in a plastifoam Healpak. She jerked to a halt, inspected him bleary-eyed, then made her way over to the accel-couch. She fell into it, gasping with pain. “What in Hades happened back there?” she asked through clenched teeth. “And can’t you even protect your Patron?”

Damn
. Too soon came the moment of truth, the moment he’d both wanted and feared. Matt climbed out of the Pit, reached down for the Samoan
lavalava
skirt that he cinched around his waist, then walked over and stood by Eliana’s couch, looking down at her pale, drawn face. Sweat beaded her brow. “I’m a piss-poor one,” he said.  I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Her mouth quirked into a half-grin. “Can I have a written guarantee on that? Or doesn’t the Vigilante Guild give guarantees?”

“Our Guild discourages such guarantees. And I did save your life by getting you to the Biolab.” Hands clasped behind his back, Matt smiled down at her.

“Well . . . .” The pain-irritation left her. She looked him up and down, noticed the bright colors of his
lavalava
, and smiled. “Verbal guarantees are still nice.”

In his mind, a
sotto-vocce
countdown continued as Mata Hari
gave them privacy. He thanked her for showing empathy, then focused on his Patron, a woman who was becoming much more than just an employer. “The best guarantee I can give is this one—I promise to put my ship, my body, and my life between you and harm’s way.” Her emerald gaze turned soft and caring. “For as long as I live, or as long as the contract lasts. Acceptable?”

Eliana lifted her eyebrows. “Ah—a sophist. If you die before the contract is completed, you get out of your commitment.”

“Hey. You’re right.” Matt grinned. “I never was much good in rhetoric class.”

“Rhetoric?” Eliana relaxed in the couch, hands folded in her lap and chest rising with her breathing. “You never took any Standard Ed class I know of—did you?”

“Nope,” he said, wishing he could dispose of Mata Hari’s mental peering-over-his-shoulder. “Just lessons from the School of Reality.”

“Matthew, the countdown is ending,”
Mata Hari
said out loud.

He turned away from the holosphere. “Speaking of which, please close your eyes. Now. Immediately!”

Eliana looked puzzled, but closed her eyes. As did Matt.

A brilliant light flooded the Bridge and seeped in under his eyelids, filling his mind with actinic white brilliance. A diamond hard brilliance that was but a pale reflection of the true thermonuclear inferno now unfolding its petals above an uninhabited ocean of Halcyon.

“Wow!” Eliana gasped as she opened her eyes. “That was a nuclear blast!” she yelled, looking to the holosphere. “Who’s attacking us?”

“No one,”
Mata Hari
said neutrally from an overhead speaker.

Eliana scowled, looking up. “Damned computer. Then who are we attacking?”

“No one,” Matt said, hoping her quick temper would allow him time to explain. “Eliana, Madam Patron, we are seventy kilometers northwest of the Stripper, on south continent and outside of its Defense perimeter. I’ve just finished ‘sampling’ the Stripper’s composition at the subatomic level—courtesy of some stray neutrinos and x-rays from my rather small hydrogen bomb.” He tilted his head to one side. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind!” Eliana gulped. She flushed ruby-red. Then she tried to rise from her accel-couch, but its crash-cushioning enfolded her as
Mata Hari
shook slightly from the sonic boom that followed the explosion’s light and thermal pulses. “Damn you! What kind of craziness possessed you to—”

“Sir,”
Mata Hari
interrupted formally. “You told me to put through any comsat vidcalls after the explosion? There are several now lined up on my multiplex boards. With whom do you wish to talk to first?”

Matt looked at Eliana, then reached out to her, palm open. “Eliana—will you trust me on this? The blast was absolutely necessary and the Stripper hasn’t released any ecotoxins. It may attack us shortly, or it may just signal our presence to its master. Please?”

Eliana had never seen him plead for anything. It shocked her. “Uh, well—” she frowned, still upset. “The least you could have done was discuss this with me beforehand!”

“You were unconscious in
Biolab.” He smiled pleasantly. “But now, I’m very happy to see you up and feeling better. Do you mind? I have calls to take.”

She glowered a moment, then grinned at his verbal dodging. “Oh, all right. I just can’t stay mad at you.”

“Thanks. Now, please watch and enjoy my Vigilante show.” Matt turned, snapped his fingers, said “Robe,” and caught the formal Japanese
kimono
robes that dropped from Mata Hari’s ceiling into his outstretched grasp. He tossed the
lavalava
up toward the ceiling, then dressed in the robes, cinched the complex belt, and walked over to the Interlock Pit. He stepped down, sat in his glass seat, and felt the cable socket into his neck implant.

“
Mata Hari—you’ll have to make do with cable’s fiber optics. For some events, formal clothing is important in sapient affairs.” Off to the side, Eliana leaned forward in her couch, looking at the holosphere. “Now, feed me the call from Autarch Dreedle—she was first, wasn’t she?”

“She was,”
Mata Hari
said, her tone business-serious. “In the front holosphere, sir.”

Autarch Dreedle’s willowy, blue-robed form took shape in the holosphere. She stood in her Trunk office and her hand-clenched posture conveyed the sense that this redhead was quite, quite mad. Matt acknowledged her call. “Yes, Autarch?”

From the distant northern continent, her deep brown eyes glowed angrily. “Orbital sensors confirm through ballistic backtracking that the recent hydrogen bomb explosion near the Stripper came from your ship.” Dreedle spoke in a very formal, very official voice. “Vigilante, I once asked you to avoid destroying my planet.”

“I am,” Matt said amiably. “So far. All my Tactical scenarios suggest it should be possible to leave your planetary ecosystem intact after removal of the Stripper.”

“Removal?” She switched gears very smoothly. “How do you plan to do that? And why attack it? Surely you’re risking the release of ecotoxins!”

He shook his head. “Not at all. First, there has been no such release—according to my miniProbes. Second, a defensive response is unlikely—the missile was not aimed at the Stripper.”

Curiosity flamed in the Autarch’s eyes. “Oh? Then why the blast? Surely there are other ways to impress Halicene Conglomerate . . . and your Patron.”

Matt smiled toothily. “I am not in the business of impressing commerce-raiders. Unlike you. As I told Despot Nikolaos . . . when we discussed your youthful indiscretions in his bedroom. Remember? That was before your recent elevation to the Autarchy.”

Dreedle swayed. With shock? Matt was uncertain about emotional reactions in a Derindl. Finally, the Autarch smiled weakly, showing numerous pointed teeth. “What else did the Despot tell you . . . about us?”

“Enough.” Matt looked aside at the Pit’s comlink panel—a row of status lights blinked insistently. “Pardon me, Autarch, but I have other incoming calls. If you don’t mind?”

The Autarch lifted her chin defiantly. “Before you again contaminate my atmosphere with transuranic products, please call me. The Mother Trees can handle fallout with suitable notice.”

Matt nodded. “I will. And I did warn Mother Tree Xylene. However, not all fallout on Halcyon derives from nucleonic reactions. Good day.” He blinked.

Next in the holosphere was the lined face and grey eyes of Ioannis, Despot of Clan Themistocles. He sat on his Dais Throne, within his tapestry-hung Throne Room. The man looked quite angry, but sought to hide it in the bustle of personal Servitors who gathered around him, plying him with long sheets of data printouts. He looked up, the very image of a harried, concerned Administrator. “Vigilante? What the hell are you doing attacking the Stripper with a hydrogen bomb?”

He offered a feral grin to Ioannis—it dated from the day he’d killed his cloneslave master on Alkalurops and taken back his freedom. “And a good day to you, Despot Ioannis. I hope Grandfather Petros is well and that my visit to Despot Karamanlis was properly reported to you?”

Ioannis scowled, waving aside the Servitors. “It was. Along with your destruction of a grain silo in Olympus. You seem to take pleasure in wreaking devastation. Do you plan further attacks on my city?”

“No.” Matt blinked a short code. “I am now uplinking to you a digitized record of the laser rifle attack on your half-sister Eliana . . . by forces unknown . . . after we left the company of Despot Nikolaos.” Shock filled Ioannis’ face; printouts fell from his lap. “That’s why I melted the silo and deposited a bomb ‘reminder’ on the back doorstep of Meeting Hall Karamanlis. Can you add any data on who might wish your half-sister dead? Besides yourself?”

The Despot’s lips trembled with barely controlled fury. “Eliana—hurt! You failed to protect her? Bastard! And why this insult to my manhood? She is—”

“She is,” Matt interrupted, “a crossbreed woman who will survive on Halcyon long after you are gone and who, thanks to some genetic engineering, will birth crossbreed heirs the natural way. Heirs who could inherit the Themistocles shipping business.” To the side, Eliana gasped, cursed her brother’s name, and half-rose from the accel-couch.

Ioannis paled. He waved one hand hurriedly, raising a Privacy Curtain inside his own office. “Vigilante—you misunderstand Greek politics. I love my half-sister. I have no reason to wish her harm. I would love—”

“To have her become sterile,” Matt interrupted again, waving Eliana back from the holosphere pickup. “Or become incapable of carrying a child who could challenge your suzerainty over Olympus colony. Or perhaps you plan to marry her off in a Trade-alliance marriage?” He sat back in his glass chair, folded hands in his lap, and watched Despot Ioannis with the same attention he’d given to Legion. “Enough of standard geopolitics. I am more curious about your business affairs. Tell me, Despot, how much did you pay the Halicene Conglomerate to shift their freighter business from your cousin Nikolaos’ port down in Olympus . . . and up to your Docks there, at Zeus Station?”

Ioannis sat back in his alabaster-white Throne seat, rested his chin on one clenched fist, and exerted self-control. Calculation glinted in the man’s grey eyes. Finally, he smiled. “Commercial secrets are the oldest of state secrets, Vigilante. Any bribe I could offer you would be less than what the Derindl will pay you to rid them of the Stripper.” Ioannis canted his head. “So . . . why do you waste your efforts on our sordid internal politics?”

Matt glanced over at Eliana. Her milk-white face showed a horrid fascination with Ioannis. Standing to one side, out of pickup range, she had watched their byplay, hearing it, seeing it, wondering what her Vigilante had in mind. And whether her older half-brother preferred her dead, disabled, or married off to secure a Trade alliance. Anything but free, independent and in control of her own destiny. Matt turned back to the overconfident Ioannis.