Shadow of Freedom

“Sorry.” Ankenbrandt smiled briefly. “What I meant was that Trifecta really is interested in exploring the market in Mobius for Montana beef. That means nobody’s going to ask any questions about my happening to meet with somebody who exports beef from Montana. Aside from that, I really don’t know why they put your name on my list of contacts.”

“And who might this ‘they’ be?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that to anyone except the senior Manticoran officer in-system.” Ankenbrandt’s tone sounded genuinely apologetic.

“I see.” Westman studied the Solarian narrowly. “And if I should happen to turn all suspicious and hand your out-world ass—if you’ll pardon my language—over to the Marshal Service with the recommendation that they just purely investigate the hell out of you?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Ankenbrandt said. “It wouldn’t be a pleasant experience, and they wouldn’t find anything anyway. On the other hand, it could get me, and a lot of other people, into a lot of trouble if the wrong people back in Mobius were to hear about it. And to be honest, I don’t think the Manties would be very happy with you if that happened.”

Damned if he doesn’t sound like the real deal, Westman reflected. And from his expression, I think he’s telling the truth about how much trouble he could get into back home. He’s mighty insistent on how bad the Manties’re going to want to talk to him, too. Even if they don’t know he’s coming!

“Well,” he said out loud after a moment, “I’m afraid if you want me to introduce you to Admiral Gold Peak, you’re out of luck. I’ve met the lady, but she and I don’t frequent the same circles.” Ankenbrandt’s expression fell, but Westman continued unhurriedly. “Just happens, though, that I do know at least one Manty officer who’d be able to get you in to see her. Assuming, of course, you can convince him that’d be a good idea.” The Montanan smiled slowly. “Mind you, he doesn’t convince real easy, and he’s just a mite on the stubborn side himself. ’Fraid that’s about the best I can do for you, though. Interested?”

Ankenbrandt was obviously torn. He turned and looked out the office windows for a good fifteen seconds, clearly thinking hard, then turned back to Westman.

“If that’s the best you can do—and if you’re willing to go that far for me—I’ll take your offer and be grateful,” he said.

“Fine.”

Westman tapped his personal com awake, entered a combination from memory, and turned to look out the windows himself, waiting. It took a little longer than usual for the connection to go through, then he smiled out at the passing air cars of downtown Brewster.

“Howdy, Helen,” he said, and his voice had grown much warmer. “Tell me, would it happen the Commodore—and you, of course—would be able to join me at The Rare Sirloin for dinner in a couple of hours, say?” He listened for a moment, still looking out the window, and snorted. “No, I haven’t gone back to my wicked ways, young lady! But”—his expression sobered—“it ’pears somebody else may have something along those lines he wants to talk about.” He listened again. “I don’t mind holding,” he said then.

He stood at the windows, whistling softly, for several seconds. Then—

“Yes?” He listened again, then nodded in satisfaction. “Fine! Tell the Commodore I appreciate it, and I’ll see both of you then. Clear.”

He deactivated the com again and turned to the Solarian.

“Well, there you go, Mr. Ankenbrandt. You’ve got your meeting. Just bear in mind that neither the Commodore nor I are real fond of people who try to play us for fools.”

* * *

“Yes, Aivars? What can I do for you?” Michelle Henke asked.

“This is going to sound a little strange, Ma’am,” Sir Aivars Terekhov said from her com display.

“There’s a lot of that going around lately,” she replied dryly.

“I meant, it’s going to sound even stranger than most of what’s been happening,” he explained with a slight smile, and she raised her eyebrows.

“You fill me with dread. Go ahead.”

“Well, Ensign Zilwicki and I had dinner down on Montana with an old…acquaintance of ours an hour or so ago. And that acquaintance had brought along a guest with an odd request. It seems—”

* * *

The admittance signal chimed, and Michelle Henke glanced over her shoulder at Master Sergeant Massimiliano Cognasso. Master Sergeant Cognasso—Miliano to his friends—was scarcely accustomed to hobnobbing with flag officers who also happened to be third in line for the imperial throne. He was, however, a twenty-T-year veteran of the Royal Manticoran Marines, and while he might not have been precisely comfortable, he didn’t seem all that distressed, either.