The water treatment plants had several holding basins to deal with this excess water. Massive pipes would channel it into these effluent lakes, where it would wait until it could be processed through the plants. Our operation demanded that the sluice gates that would pour the water back into the plant be blown open, and that the anti-reflux valves in the plant itself likewise be jammed open.

Catford and his commandos, working by the light of lightning, accomplished these goals at 2A .M. on the sixth. What this resulted in was an incredible pressure wave where millions of metric tons of water flowed back into the city’s sewer system. When you have ten-meter diameter pipes flowing at capacity, and their load is transferred to pipes running into homes—with their pipes being thirty centimeters in diameter—the result is rather spectacular.

Lucky homeowners on the west side of the city had old pipes that burst somewhere in their yards. Water boiled and bubbled, churning turf and mud into a stinking swamp that, a year later, would actually result in a pretty good lawn. Apartment dwellers were similarly fortunate if the pipes burst in their building’s basement.

But the unfortunate—and there were many of them according to news stories—were those people who had good pipes and, for whatever reason, happened to be enjoying a bath or a moment of solitude when the wave hit. Raw sewage geysered into homes, staining ceilings in cases where the flow was unimpeded. It filled tubs to overflowing, backed into dishwashers, dripped from sinks into kitchens, basements and vanities.

In a couple of places the larger street pipes burst, creating instant sinkholes that sucked down parked hovercars and left fetid lakes slowly creeping along the streets. In some places a drenched and irate citizenry raised the alarm immediately, while others were left to awaken to peculiar smells and woefully soggy carpeting.

And the toll on businesses, especially in the lowest areas of the city, was equally devastating. Schools were closed on the west side and Count Germayne appeared on Tri-Vid to ask that anyone who did not need to leave their homes just stay there while the city cleaned up. While his reasoning was sound, no one wanted to linger in a cesspit of a house, especially when anything that went into one sink just bubbled back up into a tub or the basement. The citizens started burning from the start, especially when the richer folks located in the hills were reported to have escaped disaster.

Aldrington Emblyn swung into action immediately, which was great. One of his subsidiary firms was a housecleaning concern that had grown out of the staff he had for his hotels. The company, NextToGodliness LLC, offered an immediate Good Neighbor discount of ninety percent, and hired people to expand the workforce. He also brought folks who had been flooded out of their homes into empty rooms in his hotels, which likewise endeared him to the populace.

The Germayne government countered by opening a variety of municipal garages and hangars where folks could camp out in donated blankets, sleeping bags and cots. Emblyn raised that bid by donating more blankets, pillows and spare beds. The Germaynes suffered an additional setback when vehicles they parked on the street to open a garage got swallowed up in a sewage swamp.

The local Tri-Vid media compounded our victory with their profiles that showed Germayne officials being inept. At first the disaster was explained away as a catastrophic failure of the restraining dikes. The rush of water just tore the blown gates away and erased all signs of our blasting. It wasn’t until two days after the event that they found the doors and then started to claim it was a deliberate act of sabotage. Once they made that claim, all manner of hoots and tweets floated to the surface declaring that there had been a cover-up and that evidence had been faked, which covered our trail better than I could have hoped.

On the domestic front, Catford was left in a quandary. Everyone congratulated him for pulling the job off, and I gave him the lion’s share of the credit. He knew he couldn’t trust me, but I was quite sincere, so that confused him and, I’m sure, made him even more determined to get rid of me. He’d have to wait, though, until one of my plans failed.

Putting myself in Catford’s shoes—soggy as they were—I figured out that if one of my plans did not fail on its own, he’d make sure to tank one. This meant I had to make sure he had enough to do that pleased him, that he stayed his hand. I also realized he’d now be trying to come up with operations that would continue doing what I was doing, so I’d have to be fighting him on that front. I was pretty sure I could stay out in front of him per se, but he had a brain trust to be bouncing things off and I didn’t. Could be one of them would come up with a good idea and I’d have to scramble.

The success of the attack did win a lot of converts to LIT. Some were thoughtful in their analysis and insights, clearly cadging for future work, whereas others simply said, “That was good.” Catford’s attempts to paint me as someone stupid simply failed. I still didn’t have the full confidence of those I had to work with, but they’d be willing to listen in the future, which was important. If I could offer them plans that would let them get paid without getting killed, they’d go along and I could minimize collateral damage.

Gypsy had been very generous in his praise for the effort, but on the seventh he surprised me by handing me a three-thousand-stone bonus in its C-bill equivalent. “Our master was pleased with your effort. He sent this money to you to express his pleasure.”

I fanned the bills. “How much did you skim?”

He blinked, then smiled. “Twenty percent. I did sell him on the plan, after all.”

“More like forty, I’m sure. Mine is the bigger piece though, so that’s okay.”

Gypsy smiled. “Ah, but there is more. He wants you to use that money to buy yourself suitable evening clothes. Two nights from now you’ll be in Contressa at a little gala. The Emblyn Palace Contressa is opening its main facility and Mr. Emblyn is throwing a party for a thousand of his closest friends.”

“And I’m numbered among them?”

“You are now.”

“When do we leave?”

Gypsy shook his head. “Not we, just you.”

I frowned. “You don’t know me well enough to know I can deal with this sort of thing without causing trouble. I’m a wild card. You can’t trust me that much.”

“I know that during your exploration of the city you picked up a well-tailored suit.”

“You were watching me?”

“And you would not have watched me were our roles reversed?”

“Point taken. Okay, so I can dress well.”

“And you are very quick. The way you dealt with Catford was most politically astute. I might have found you a crude lumberjack on Helen, but that was a disguise.” Gypsy smiled slowly. “But, it does not matter if I trust you or not. My master expresses his wishes and I carry them out. He wants you there, so you will be there.”

“Anyone else I know?”

“None of our little family, no. You’ll be a guest of the resort for the weekend, then come back here Monday.” He nodded slowly. “I’ll be fascinated to hear your report on the whole thing. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“I shall.”

“One thing, Sam.”

“Yes?”

“This access to my boss. It’s a onetime thing.” His eyes became cold. “If you try to cut me out of things, your plans will live on well after you, and we shall mourn your passing.”