“I think the perps were trying to keep tabs on any investigation by the VPD or the System Bureau of Investigation. Anyway, they’d managed to get into Boyagis’s files—we think we’ve IDed the hacker they hired, if you want her name—but then someone else jacked their files to get to Boyagis’s. I’m not sure who the ‘someone else’ was, but I know it wasn’t my people, so I thought I’d better come and make sure it wasn’t any of your people before we report it to Boyagis. Or, rather, before I report it to Colonel Naran and you and he report it to Boyagis.”

  “No clue at all who it was?”

  “None,” she confirmed. “And I assume from your question that it wasn’t you?”

  “Of course it wasn’t me!” Kourniakis sat back in his chair. “Why the hell would I be hacking the Attorney General’s files?”

  She considered several possible responses to that question. None of them seemed very constructive, however.

  Unlike her, Kourniakis was a native Hypatian. That was scarcely unusual in the SG. In fact, the majority of the Gendarmes in Hypatia were Hypatians, given the Gendarmerie’s Core World staffing policies. Usually, Latimer thought that was an excellent idea. Core Systems weren’t Protectorates. They were full-fledged, self-governing members of the Solarian League, so there’d never been any reason for the Gendarmerie to transfer in people who had no local connections to seduce them from the straight and narrow, and there were strong arguments in favor of using as many locals as possible. Latimer’s own CID was living proof of that. Her best agents, most effective investigators, were all Hypatians, with the innate feel for their homeworld’s social patterns and interactions which could be produced only by total submersion in their environment. They also tended to get the best results whenever CID had to interface with local law enforcement agencies—which happened a lot—because they weren’t outsiders trying to cut in on someone else’s turf. And, even if all that hadn’t been true, assigning people light-years away from their friends and families when there were plenty of openings right in their hometowns had a powerful negative impact on personnel retention rates.

  Right this moment, though, those personnel policies were contributing to something Latimer really didn’t like. And not just with Kourniakis, although he was certainly a case in point.

  She’d known Lawrence Kourniakis for over eight T-years. They were friends. He and her husband Carl were hunting and fishing buddies, and his twin girls attended the same school as her son Peter. She wasn’t as close to Kourniakis’s wife Angelika as Kourniakis was to Carl, but both of them loved landscape photography, and Angie knew all the best vistas and exactly when the lighting would be most spectacular.

  And despite all of that, Ingrid Latimer couldn’t say what she was thinking to Kourniakis. “Larry, you should be digging as deep as you can into the treasonous SOB’s files to find out just how badly the bastard and his bosses are planning on screwing the League,” wasn’t something Kourniakis wanted to hear.

  Of course it’s not, she thought. Larry’s a hell of a nice guy, and I’d trust him with my life. But he’s about as blind as any of these other Hypatians. And he doesn’t think they’re doing a single thing that’s illegal.

  In fairness, Latimer wasn’t certain the Hypatia System Unified Government’s actions were illegal. On the other hand, she wasn’t certain they weren’t, and it seemed to her that a few precautions were in order. Unfortunately, Colonel Naran had taken the position that the entire referendum was a local government issue. It might have federal implications, but absent a formal decision from the League Judiciary that the constitutional right of secession was no longer operative, he had no authority to interfere in the process while the Hypatians sorted it out.

  And by the time they finish “sorting it out,” it’ll be too late. Unless something turns around pretty damned quick, these people aren’t going to just cross the Rubicon. They’re going to cross it, blow up their bridges behind them, and throw the splinters back into the river with a rock tied to their ankles! In fact, maybe the metaphor I want has more to do with the Red Sea than any rivers.

  “Well, if it’s not you, then maybe it’s one of the Liberty Committees,” she said out loud. “They’re making enough noise, and don’t forget the injunction Allerton’s asking for. The Committees could be looking for inside information about where Boyagis’s thinking is on that.”

  “And it could also be some damned newsy wanting a scoop,” Kourniakis shot back just a bit quickly. “It doesn’t have to be one of the Committees, Ingrid. For that matter, it could be one of Allerton’s people looking for exactly the same kind of info.”

  “It could,” she conceded, although she didn’t think for a minute that it was.

  Senator Makiko Allerton had made her opposition to the referendum madness crystal clear. Her arguments against secession were just as emotional as the strident demands of the dozens of Liberty Committees which had sprung up to organize in favor of it and she was, in Latimer’s opinion, a far more eloquent spokeswoman. But she was also badly outnumbered. She was fighting a losing battle, and that battle had gotten a hell of a lot harder when that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Abruzzi-MacArtney soundbite hit the public boards here in Vivliothḗkē. The vote trend had been clear almost from the beginning, but opposition to the referendum had plummeted and support among the previously undecided had skyrocketed in the wake of that stupid, obviously—and heavily—edited scrap of private conversation.

  Allerton and her small cohort of doggedly loyal fellows in Hypatia’s unicameral legislature had fought hard against the referendum while it was still in the draft stage, and they hadn’t stopped fighting since. The political cost for Allerton, who almost every pundit agreed would have been the next System President if the referendum had never come along, had been steep, but she’d refused to yield. Now, though, after the disaster of the Abruzzi-MacArtney clip and with only three more days until the actual vote, it must be obvious even—or perhaps especially—to her that she was destined for defeat. Even Latimer had to admit that her probably-doomed request for an injunction, postponing the referendum until the legality of secession was ruled upon by the Federal courts, was no more than a last-ditch, forlorn hope effort to avoid the inevitable.

  Whatever else Makiko Allerton might be, though, she was a woman who believed in due process and the rule of law. She’d dedicated her entire life to that. The possibility that she might have hacked the Attorney General’s office simply didn’t exist.

  Which, the major acknowledged unhappily, doesn’t mean one of her supporters couldn’t’ve done it without her knowledge or approval. I hate to say it, but Larry’s got a point about that. I just wish I felt more confident he’s still trying to keep the playing field level in his own mind. And I hate even having to wonder about that, damn it!

  “Anyway,” she said out loud, “I figured you needed to hear about it. Under the circumstances, I’m just as happy I don’t have to make the call about whether or not to tell Boyagis about it, but I thought it would be a good idea to give you a heads-up before the official report lands in your inbox.”

  “I appreciate that.” Kourniakis smiled at her. “And as soon as that official report gets here, I’m sure Colonel Naran will pass it on to the AG.” He shrugged. “Until the referendum’s actually voted on, all of the rules about jurisdictions still apply, and this is clearly in Boyagis’s. Thanks for bringing it to me, Ingrid.”

  “You’re welcome.” She pushed up out of the chair and extended her hand across the desk. “Take care, Larry.”

  “You, too, Ingrid.” Kourniakis stood to shake her hand. “And don’t forget Friday night. Alethea and Alexia have informed me they intend to cook supper.” He shook his head. “God only knows what it’ll be, but I promise it won’t poison anybody.”

  “That’s what you say now,” she replied with a smile, then nodded and headed back for her own office.

  Lawrence Kourniakis watched the door close behind Ingrid, then settled back behind his desk and turned the HD volume back up. The talking heads weren’t saying anything he didn’t already know, but he let them natter in the background as he tipped back in his chair, gazing at the closed door with a pensive expression, and ran the conversation back through his mind.

  Ingrid had a point about how badly the Liberty Committees might have wanted a peek inside Attorney General Boyagis’s files. And he didn’t think for a moment that Makiko Allerton would have condoned any illegalities on behalf of herself or her anti-referendum crusade. The truth was, he didn’t have a clue as to who it might have been, and he was just as happy it wasn’t a federal matter—which meant it wasn’t his—until and unless the system authorities requested the Gendarmerie’s assistance.

  Which they wouldn’t do now if the Spíti tēs Gerousías was burning down with the Senators inside it, he thought sourly. Never thought I’d see something like this, and I wish to hell I wasn’t seeing it. But, damn it, it’s time to fish or cut bait.

  Up until very recently, Lawrence Kourniakis had never wondered whether he saw himself first as a Hypatian or as a citizen of the Solarian League. Those identities had been identical, as far as he was concerned. But now, since this whole confrontation with first the Manties, then the Republic of Haven, and now even Beowulf…

  If not for Beowulf, he’d probably still be inclined to give the Ministry of Information and the anti-Manty newsies the benefit of the doubt. Certainly all this nonsense about centuries-long Mesan conspiracies sounded like either the ravings of a lunatic or pure fiction. But he knew too many Beowulfers. For that matter, his wife’s family was from Beowulf, and one of his uncles had married a Manticoran. He’d found it difficult to recognize any of his in-laws in the imperialistic, warmongering monsters the newsies were portraying. Of course, he’d also been prepared to admit that he’d never made a close study of Manticore’s relations with the League or of any possible Mesan conspiracies. But he’d viewed Felicia Hadley’s fiery denunciations of the “Mandarins” from the floor of the Legislative Assembly itself, and the worm of doubt had crept into his heart as she hammered the League’s foreign policy.

  Maybe it wouldn’t have if he hadn’t spent fifteen years seconded to Frontier Security before he returned to Hypatia, married Angela, and settled down. Most of those years had been out in the Protectorates, and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen there. He hadn’t liked the kind of deals he’d seen between corrupt Solarian transstellars and the local OFS commissioners. The sort of deals which lent a damning edge of plausibility to Manticore and Haven’s claims about Mesa. He hadn’t liked the façade democracies, or the way OFS propped up local despots and dictators, regardless of their human rights policies, as long as they kept the fee schedules moving. And he hadn’t liked the way the League had operated to suppress any local opposition to those despots and dictators.

  He’d told himself those sorts of operations were Frontier Security’s business, not the Gendarmerie’s, and there’d been a lot of truth to that. But nobody could witness it without being touched by it, and he’d still felt…dirtied by some of the things he’d witnessed. Some of the things in which he’d been forced to participate, if only at second or third hand.

  Things that had left a scar.

  And that scar was what had tipped him from ambivalence over secession into full-bodied support for it. People could argue all they wanted to that that conversation between Malachai Abruzzi and Nathan MacArtney had had never been serious. That it had been no more than venting, driven by their intense frustration as the Manticore Crisis escalated. But the fact that they’d said the words at all had reminded Major Lawrence Kourniakis of the things the Solarian League—his Solarian League—routinely did do in the Protectorates. And when he added that to the way the Mandarins and their surrogates had torn into Beowulf—accused it of treason, for exercising its legal rights where the Beowulf Terminus was concerned and probably saving hundreds of thousands of Solarian lives into the bargain—he’d realized he didn’t really have to leave the League.

  The League had already left him, long ago. His League had died somewhere out there in the Protectorates, and all the referendum represented, really, was the formalization of the death certificate.

  He inhaled deeply, shook his head, and returned to his paperwork.

  Proedrikḗ Katoikía

  City of Vivliothḗkē

  Hypatia System

  “I have to say that while I’m very relieved to see you, your timing may be just a bit too expeditious, Admiral,” System President Adam Vangelis said as he stood and walked around the desk to shake Rear Admiral Kotouč’s hand. “We didn’t expect you for another full-day or so.”

  “I’m pleased to be here, and I hope I can be of service, Mister President,” Kotouč replied a bit cautiously as he shook the proffered hand.

  He felt awkward out of uniform, and he’d wondered why the President’s message had asked him to travel on a government-chartered, civil registry shuttle and wear civilian attire for his visit to the Proedrikḗ Katoikía. He’d wondered if Vangelis’s request was a bad sign when the message was delivered, and the last thing he wanted to discover was that it had been.

  “As for our arrival time,” he continued, “my orders were to make the most expeditious passage I could. Is there some reason I shouldn’t have?” He shook his head. “My instructions are to assist you in any way I can, and I’m afraid I’m not sufficiently familiar with the local political scene to be aware of any…timing issues. Ms. Goode’s done her best to bring me up to speed on Hypatian politics, and I viewed her reports with great interest on our way here, but I’m sure you understand that I haven’t had time to develop any sort of inside perspective.”

  “Of course you haven’t!” Vangelis shook his head and smiled at the silver haired woman who’d accompanied Kotouč into his office. “It’s remarkable that Kay’s developed such an excellent understanding of Hypatia in the short time she’s been here. I’ll allow her, oh, eighty hours, let’s say, to instill that same understanding in you.”

  “As always, Mister President, your generosity awes me,” the Honorable Kay Goode responded in a pronounced Sphinxian accent, and the treecat on her shoulder bleeked a laugh.

  “And that’s enough lèse-majesté out of you, too, Dizzy!” Vangelis said, shaking an index finger at the ’cat…who seemed mightily undismayed by the admonition. Goode reached up and stroked his ears gently, shaking her head, and Vangelis chuckled.

  Kotouč didn’t know Goode personally, but he knew quite a bit about her, including the fact that she was distantly related to both Klaus Hauptman—the connection was very distant there—and also to Honor Alexander-Harrington, through the Zivoniks, one of the oldest families on Sphinx. He also knew she’d lost her husband and, although the Goodes as a family hadn’t been hit nearly so hard as the Harringtons, several other close family members in the Yawata Strike. He doubted anyone would have realized that, given her serene expression, but no one who’d viewed her situation reports from Hypatia would make that mistake. The lava behind those gray eyes burned hot in those reports, and he’d wondered, viewing some of them, if she saw the Solarian League more as an enemy in its own right or as no more than an obstacle between her star nation and the people who’d murdered so many of its citizens.

  He suspected it was the latter…and that her priorities only added a finely distilled vitriol to her hate and loathing for the Mandarins.

  Whatever her feelings, and however much of them she’d revealed in her reports to her Manticoran superiors, he was sure she’d kept them under control here in Hypatia. She was Sir Anthony Langtry’s special envoy to Hypatia, and everyone knew that as soon as the referendum’s outcome was announced she would take off her special envoy’s hat and replace it with that of the Star Empire of Manticore’s Ambassador and Minister Plenipotentiary to the System Republic of Hypatia. It probably wouldn’t change her personal relationship with Vangelis—which was obviously very good—a bit, but the legal implications of naming an ambassador to a newly independent star nation which had been a founding member of the Solarian League would not be lost on the galaxy at large.

  “In the meantime, Admiral,” Vangelis continued, ushering both of his guests over to stand at the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out across the Proedrikḗ Katoikía’s beautifully landscaped grounds, “I didn’t mean to imply that your arrival is in the least unwelcome. I don’t believe I’m going to need your assistance to maintain order here in Hypatia.” He smiled just a bit crookedly. “I’m sure there’s going to be some ‘buyer’s remorse.’ There always is, even in decisions nowhere near as monumental as this one! And the minority who opposed secession—it looks like around twenty-one percent actually voted against it—may produce a certain…restiveness. Overall, though, I’m not anticipating any significant domestic unrest.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that, Mister President.”

  Kotouč gazed out at the lacy, feathery leaves of the native trees along the ancient stone wall separating the Proedrikḗ Katoikía—the President’s House; and the admiral hoped Vangelis wouldn’t be offended when he used the Standard English translation instead of mangling the Greek—from a broad, smooth avenue. Hypatia was old enough that Vivliothḗkē had been built without counter-grav, and the original architecture had been lovingly preserved. The Old Town was walled about with the monolithic towers of a later tech base, but building codes had pushed them far enough from the ancient heart of the city to prevent the kind of overshadowing effect he’d seen on too many other planets.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” he repeated, “and that assessment accords pretty well with what Representative Lambrou and Representative Tsakabikou predicted during the voyage from Beowulf. A little better than Mr. Lambrou predicted; not quite as rosy as Ms. Tsakabikou expected.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Vangelis said a bit dryly. Kotouč raised an eyebrow, and the president chuckled. “Brad’s been more of a ‘wait-and-see-how-it-all-works-out’ type from the beginning, Admiral. Sofronia…not so much.”