“I’m leaving in four hours,” MacRobert said. “Let’s get started on that compensation.”
Eight hours later, settling into his compartment aboard Mandan Reef, one of the heavy cruisers, MacRobert remembered his own first cruise on Paleologus, commanded by the man who was now Commandant of the Academy. Instead of a first-shift slot in the crowded crew quarters between missile tubes five and six, now he had a small cabin to himself, as the Rector’s personal assistant and liaison to the allied fleet. He had no shipboard duties—he would not be scrubbing latrines to a mirror shine or swabbing the environmental section deck when a culture leaked or washing dishes. And he had no stripes; he wore civilian attire, which felt completely alien aboard ship.
“Master Sergeant—” That was a junior enlisted, a mere Skinny with the narrow band around the cuff of his shirt and FENTON on his name tag.
“Yes?” MacRobert said. The youngster almost jumped backward. “I don’t bite,” he added.
“The—the first officer wanted me to—to invite you to the bridge. Sir.”
He was neither a sir nor, any longer, a master sergeant, but the youngster was doing his best to be polite and was probably scared out of any wits he had ever possessed. MacRobert closed the case he’d been unpacking and stowed it, latching the cabinet properly. “Coming,” he said then.
All the way upship, he met men and women who knew who he was. “Good to see you, Master Sergeant MacRobert,” and “Master Sergeant—good to have you aboard.” Some of them he recognized—officers he’d harassed and guided when they were cadets, other enlisted who’d been assigned to Spaceforce Academy while he was there. Nobody called him Ser MacRobert here, as some now did in government offices; he was apparently still a master sergeant in the eyes of Spaceforce personnel.
Mandan Reef’s first officer was Lieutenant Commander Dale; MacRobert remembered him as a brash young man who had required some firm handling, but turned out well, in the top fifth of his class. “Captain’s in with the admiral,” he said now, extending his hand. “Suggested I show you the bridge, Master Sergeant. It’s been awhile.”
“That it has, Commander,” MacRobert said. He glanced around. “Been with Mandy long?”
“Year and a half. Commander Seristhan brought me along from Firewort.” Dale introduced MacRobert to the rest of the bridge crew. “Captain said you’d be welcome up here anytime, ’cept of course in combat—”
“I’ll try not to wear out my welcome, Commander,” MacRobert said.
“And as a—I guess you are a civilian, officially—you’re welcome to mess with either officers or enlisted.”
“Um. I haven’t been an official civilian that long, Commander. If it won’t offend anyone, I’d rather leave the officers to their ward-room and mess, and me where I’m comfortable.”
Dale chuckled. “Master Sergeant, I have the feeling you’re comfortable anywhere from the pink palace on down, but suit yourself. Captain said to ask.”
MacRobert made it back to his quarters, finished his interrupted unpacking, and wondered how Grace was doing. He had gotten used to being her counterweight, and her being his, a relationship more of working partners than anything else, though the intervals of pleasure were…pleasurable. He had arranged additional security for her; she was as accurate with her weaponry as ever, but until that arm was full-grown and up to strength, he still worried. They’d found four more of Turek’s people…he doubted that was all.
He ate his first meal aboard at a table of senior NCOs, most of whom he knew; they shared stories of past cruises and adventures. Mandan Reef, steady as the planet itself by feel, gave no sense of motion along any axis. MacRobert hadn’t been in space, other than brief trips to Slotter Key’s orbital stations, in several years; he hadn’t been aboard one of the heavy cruisers in a decade at least.
The first days of the trip were unremarkable; Admiral Padhjan asked him for his analysis of the effect on tactics of onboard ansibles and MacRobert spent two work shifts writing it out, revising it, then revising it again. He presented his data cubes—text and visuals—to the admiral’s staff, and went back to his own pursuits for another four days. With no assigned duties, he used the time in the gym and onboard weapons range, as well as chatting with enlisted personnel, all of them openly curious about his life after retirement and the Slotter Key commander of a new joint force who had once been a Spaceforce cadet.
They wanted to hear marvels, he knew. They wanted to hear that she was the smartest, the bravest, the best, of all he’d known, his favorite—someone worth trusting, someone who would not waste their lives doing something stupid.
This far from Grace, he could admit—to himself—that Ky had not been his favorite of all the cadets he’d known. Very good, yes. Everything her marks and evaluations promised. But he had pegged her as too upright, too humorless, too conventional a product of a merchant family. His favorite of all time had been a witty rakehell, an admiral’s son who escaped trouble by the skin of his teeth time after time, and still topped the charts. Nasim had died fifteen years before, no fault of his own, when his ship, exploring a new route, had downjumped into a large mass. Nasim would not have fallen for the Miznarii’s sob story; he’d had political sense from the first day. But then, Ky had never jumped blind and run into a rock.
What really irked MacRobert about Ky, he had to admit, was that he had not seen all her potential when she was right there under his eye. He had seen the dedication, the courage, the integrity, but he’d missed the killer Grace had seen. He hadn’t even looked for it in a merchant’s daughter. He’d thought of the letter of marque more as a way of keeping contact with someone who might be able to supply useful intelligence—who had enough military training to know what might be worth sharing—than as taking the leash off a born combat commander.
He told the enlisted men and women most of what they wanted to hear—it couldn’t hurt—and when two days from downjump the admiral and staff called him in to ask much the same thing, he told them, too.
“You’ve got her dossier, Admiral. You know what the Commandant thought of her. She had a lock on being honor graduate, until then.”
“She fell for some young man—” Admiral Padhjan’s expression edged on contempt.
“No, sir. She was his assigned mentor; she believed he was in distress; she tried to find him appropriate religious counsel. She should have come to me, or to one of the instructors, yes. But she did not see it as a political problem, and she did not think approaching a religious person, a cleric, would cause the trouble it did cause.”
“But if she makes mistakes like that, how can we be sure—” Clearly, orders to put his squadrons under the command of someone he’d never met—someone who was not even an Academy graduate—were fraying in the admiral’s memory.
“Sir, if she still made mistakes like that she wouldn’t be alive.” MacRobert put on his most familiar persona, the senior NCO who, perfectly respectful, nonetheless steers his seniors around the potholes they are unable or unwilling to see. “Cadets, you know, do make mistakes. Sometimes serious ones. Sometimes in class, sometimes in barracks, sometimes on the drill field…” He paused; Admiral Padhjan acquired a faint flush. “That’s how they learn,” MacRobert went on, ignoring it. They both knew what Padhjan’s mistake had been, and he hadn’t repeated it, which was the point.
“And you think she’s really competent to command large forces in combat?” Admiral Padhjan said. “A mixed force like this?”
“She’s the only person on our side who’s done it,” MacRobert said. “And she’s survived. So it’s the Rector’s judgment that she’s capable, and I concur.”
“The Rector is her relative,” the admiral said. “That suggests her judgment might be less than impartial.”
“The Rector is a combat veteran herself,” MacRobert said. It took an effort to keep his voice even, but he’d had years of practice.
“A long time ago.” Padhjan sighed. “All right. I take your point. The Rector isn’t
just a political appointee; Ky Vatta isn’t just an impressionable girl. I hope you’re right.”
MacRobert hoped so, too. Ky had exceeded his expectations; she had exceeded everyone’s expectations so far, but at some point she would run into her limits.
“Let’s get to the details. I’ve looked over what you supplied, and what little information we’ve had direct from Admiral Vatta. I’ve had some thoughts I’d like to discuss with all of you—” He glanced around the compartment.
MacRobert was relieved that Padhjan finally used Ky’s rank. Maybe that particular hurdle was past.
“If there is time to train together, of course we will do that,” Padhjan said. “But the Moscoe and Moray governments both think an attack will come soon, possibly immediately on our arrival or, if we are unlucky, before we arrive. We must have plans in place for all those, in case we do not get to talk to Admiral Vatta before we’re engaged.”
“Does she know we’re coming?” Captain Seristhan asked.
“We’re not sure. The Moscoe government knows, but she was maintaining communications lockdown—could receive but would not send. The timing was close—she may have already jumped when the word came through Moscoe.”
“I see…so she might shoot us herself—”
“She knew negotiations were ongoing,” MacRobert put in. “I wouldn’t expect her to fire at anything with a Slotter Key beacon ID.”
“Was sure her relative would come through, eh?” Seristhan said.
MacRobert put on his bland look again. “In my experience, Captain, the Rector is uncommonly effective at getting done what she thinks needs doing.”
Seristhan nodded. “She got us a full load-out of missiles and a new set of coils for number four faster than I’d ever seen Supply hustle. I like that kind of effectiveness.”
“It was with great difficulty I dissuaded her from coming along,” MacRobert said. He enjoyed the horrified looks that resulted. “She is, after all, a war veteran, as she reminded me, and she felt that her presence might be…helpful…in dealing with other governments.” MacRobert paused again. Grace’s reputation had not lessened in her time at the head of the Defense Department. No one thought of her as a potential diplomat.
“But the President wouldn’t have let—” began Captain Seristhan, then stopped. Clearly all remembered what had happened to the former President, and the rumors about Grace at that time. “And you—changed her mind?”
“In a manner of speaking,” MacRobert said. “She’s very dedicated to the welfare and safety of Slotter Key, and she finally saw that her place was there, guarding the rear, as it were. I pity the pirate who tries to get past her.”
Nexus II
Penelope Dunbarger—she had taken back her maiden name for business use, and insisted that the media use it—looked perfectly at ease in the chair placed for her by a solicitous host on the main news program. Rafe could hardly believe this was happening. She had left the building not by the underground route he would have recommended, but by the front entrance, smiling and waving at the astonished police and news reporters as if she were a vid star. After disappearing into a crowd of uniforms and cameras, she had reemerged and entered the rear door of a long, sleek vehicle that looked suspiciously like his own, and he had heard nothing from her for hours. Five minutes before, Gary had walked into his office and turned on the main screen without comment.
Now here she was, about to be the first news item interview, by all appearances.
“You’ve made extraordinary accusations, Sera Dunbarger,” the host said. “You must realize that defending your brother—a known criminal—by attacking a senior government official could be interpreted as…as, well, more family loyalty than anything else.”
Penny produced what sounded like an artless gurgle of amusement. “Come now, Stan,” she said, patting the man’s arm; he looked startled. “Everyone knows that sisters know brothers’ faults. We aren’t dazzled by them; we’ve seen them with their pants down. Literally. When they were knobby-kneed little boys.”
“She’s good,” Gary said, as if he were evaluating a prospective hire.
“You’ve got people—” Rafe began.
“Of course. She’s covered. She said to get back here and make sure you saw this. She said it’s payback time.”
“Payback?”
Gary chuckled. “Rafe, I know you’re having a bad day, and I’m truly sorry about Ky Vatta. But with this one, you did something extraordinary. You may not be able to appreciate it now, but you should. You freed the genie from the bottle.”
On screen, the host was attempting an avuncular tone and only managed to sound condescending. “In other words, you’re saying you’re not blind to his faults—”
“Gracious no!” Penny shook her head. “I’d be the first to tell you that Rafe snores so loud you can hear him three doors away—”
“I do not,” Rafe muttered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gary said. “It makes you human.” Rafe gave him a sharp look. “And you did snore in the dormitory, back at that place, about the time your voice was breaking.”
“You told her?”
“She asked for something harmless. Snoring is something innocent, like farting, only that’s low-class, and snoring happens in the best-regulated families.”
The host glanced at his notes and went on. “But when your brother was here before—”
“He was young and wild, yes,” Penny said.
“He killed two men—” the host said, looking severe.
“Saving my life,” Penny said, now leaning forward, all earnestness. “My family wanted to spare me the trauma—a lot was hushed up that should not have been, because Rafe saved my life that night. Men broke in, killed the house staff, and were going to kill or abduct us—”
“Are you sure it’s not just an excuse he made, something he told you?”
“I wasn’t a baby,” Penny said. Rafe had to admire her voice control; she placed every word and every tone for maximum effect. “I was in school, Tolver Junior Girls. I remember it very clearly indeed. The man had grabbed me out of bed, half smothered me in the duvet, and was carrying me away when Rafe shot him.”
“Playing him like a violin,” Gary murmured. “Now she has me wondering how often she’s played me.”
The host almost stuttered, caught himself. “But—we obtained the official records and it says Rafe—your brother—hit you—”
“When I saw the cook’s body downstairs, I started screaming; I couldn’t stop. Rafe slapped me so I would stop. I don’t mind that; he hadn’t done it before and he never did it again.”
“So it’s your contention that his killing those men was in self-defense?”
“Not contention. Fact. Completely self-defense.”
“Then why was he sent to the Gardner Facility?”
“Lew Parmina,” Penny said. Now her voice was cold, chips of winter granite, all sharp edges. “He told my parents where to send us for post-trauma therapy, and then got the therapist to say that Rafe was dangerous. I don’t think he’d ever have done those other things he did, if he hadn’t been locked up there.”
“Wouldn’t have had the contacts to get her out, if I hadn’t,” Rafe said, with a sharp look at Gary. “Not that I appreciated that at the time.”
“She’s doing a perfect job,” Gary said. “I could use someone like that in my organization.”
Rafe nearly choked. “She wants my job, Gary, not yours. Luckily for you.”
The interview went on, the interviewer doing his best to present Penny as the besotted little sister of a dastard, but Penny neither wavered nor lost her amiable composure. Finally, with the perfect timing that was impressing Rafe more every moment, she took control.
“What you have to understand,” she said, “is that I’m the one, not Rafe, who’s been looking into the financial details of deals cut between individuals in ISC and the Nexus government. Rafe gave me a temporary job to keep me busy while I mourned my husband’s deat
h; he thought I would just sit there doing data entry, but instead—” She pulled out a data cube. “—I found myself fascinated with the number of people who had their noses in the same money stream. The late Secretary Isaacs, for instance, had been taking in tens of thousands of credits a year—money I can trace to Ser Parmina by way of the former enforcement chief at ISC. Money allocated by ISC’s Board of Directors for maintenance of ISC’s fleet—which as you know is a major component of the System Defense—was going everywhere but the fleet.”
The data cube glittered in the light as she rolled it in her fingers and the camera zoomed in. The news anchor stared at it avidly. “That’s—do you have proof? Is that it?”
Penny smiled at him, the fond smile of an indulgent mother for a rather backward child. “Of course I have proof. I’m not in the habit of making false accusations. This is your copy—” She handed it over. “And there are many more, of course. I had not had time to tell Rafe about all I found. He’s had one crisis after another to deal with.”
“Now, you’ve made comments about Secretary Isaacs—”
“That he was involved in cheating the government, yes. And that he had reason to think someone might be on to his misdeeds, and thus might well have considered a suicide that implicated my brother and ISC as a way out.”
“But your brother was there—”
“Of course he was. It helps to get the person you wish to frame at the right place at the right time, doesn’t it?” She smiled at him, nodded as if he’d agreed, and went on. “Isaacs’ secretary ushered my brother in, and laid a packet of data cubes—just like that one—on his desk. Then he started fiddling with one of the cubes, the way you’re doing—” The man dropped the cube as if it were hot suddenly. “—and collapsed,” Penny said. “It would have been easy to put contact poison on the data cubes and have them—or one of them—ready in case of need.”
“Do you know if the cubes have been tested?”
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