by David Drake
In the harbor, sirens, whistles, and—from the Lao-tze—what must’ve been a brass gong sounded, not quite simultaneously. Daniel lifted an eyebrow.
“Local noon,” James said with a chuckle. “The mayor, the Kaid they call him here, told me it was the custom from ships in the harbor to call noon. I saw no reason to object. The populace is being very supportive; more than the governor’s staff, to be honest.”
Then, sharply: “Are you religious, Leary? Do you pray?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Ah,” he said. “I’m not a freethinker, sir. But, well, with an officer’s duties, I don’t go to the temple as often as I might.”
There were admirals who had the reputation of being priests in uniform, but Daniel hadn’t heard that about James. May the gods help the Republic if the leader of Diamondia’s defense had suddenly put his faith in heaven instead of the RCN!
“Good man,” said James unexpectedly. “I never trust a young officer who doesn’t spend more time with a bottle than he does with a prayer book. More whiskey?”
Daniel looked at his glass. A steward in black and white—Daniel didn’t know if he was RCN or part of the governor’s legacy like the liquor cabinet—stood silently beside the sliding doors back into the Residence. He hadn’t moved since bringing out the decanter.
“Thank you, sir,” Daniel said, sliding his glass over again. “Ah, Admiral? We expended six missiles on the way in, as you know?”
“I do know,” said James, filling his own glass also. The decanter was getting low. “I do indeed. A brilliant little action, Leary; in the best traditions of the RCN.”
“Thank you, sir,” Daniel repeated. “To whom do I apply to replenish our magazines? Since we’re not, the Sissie’s not I mean, part of the Diamondia Squadron?”
“You can save your breath, I’m afraid,” the admiral said. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. James was wearing Whites without medals or ribbons; from a distance he might’ve passed for a well-born gentleman in summer linens. “Leary, the only replenishment we’ve had since the squadron arrived on Diamondia has been blockade runners carrying mines, and few enough of those; seventeen small ships with forty-one mines aboard. The Alliance has already swept more than a hundred.”
He set his glass down, empty again. His eyes were turned toward the harbor, but whatever he was seeing in his mind was much farther away than that.
“Leary,” he said. “I’m not going to attach your ship to my squadron, though it’d be useful and you’d be bloody useful from what I saw this morning.”
“Sir!” said Daniel, more sharply than he’d intended. “I’m afraid my mission from the Navy Office has precedence—”
“Do you think I care about Navy House here, Leary?” the admiral said. “Should I be afraid that Admiral Vocaine is going to slap my wrist? I’ve got four Alliance capital ships to do that!”
He lurched halfway to his feet, then fell back onto his chair. Its seat of reconstituted opal was set in a wrought-iron frame like the tabletop; the feet scraped on the patio tile.
“I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” James said mildly, musing on his empty glass. “Or I should drink more, of course. Well, I can’t change the past, can I?”
He lifted the decanter, then paused. “More for you, Leary?” he asked.
“Go ahead and finish it, sir,” Daniel said. “I’ve got a busy day ahead if we’re to lift at dawn. Ah, as I intend.”
“There’s more where this comes from,” James muttered vaguely, but when he set down the empty decanter he didn’t call for a replacement. He sipped morosely, then looked across the table at Daniel.
“The reason I’m not holding you on Diamondia, Leary,” he said, “isn’t that I’m afraid of what it’d do to my career. I’ve never concerned myself much with that. I’m James of Kithran no matter what Navy House says.”
Which is why you have a career that’s the envy of most other officers of your rank, sir, Daniel thought; but this wasn’t the time for him to speak, even in praise.
“In a few months,” James continued, “the Alliance will clear a path through the defense array. Admiral Guphill will launch an attack on the planet, and I’ll lead my squadron out to engage him. They’ll know they’ve been in a fight!”
“Yes sir,” Daniel murmured, meeting the admiral’s fierce gaze.
“But there’s not the slightest chance that we’ll be able to stop them,” James said. “I know that as well as Guphill does; and you know it too, Leary.”
Daniel didn’t speak. Of course I know it. Guphill is competent, and he’s got twice the strength of ships crewed with the best personnel in the Fleet.
James set his glass down; he hadn’t emptied it. “You did my squadron a favor when you came in,” he said. “And you’re a good officer, the sort the RCN needs. I’m not going to tangle you to no purpose in this mare’s nest. You go off on your special mission and keep well clear. All I ask you is this, if you’ve got the backbone.”
He pointed his right index finger at Daniel’s chest. “When you next see Eldridge Vocaine, say that I asked you to tell him that if he’d been doing his job, he’d have sent another battleship instead of a corvette; and that if he had, the battle off Diamondia would’ve had a different ending. Do you understand?”
Daniel rose to his feet. “Sir, I understand,” he said. “And I have the backbone, yes. But I hope it won’t be necessary to deliver that message.”
“Go back to your duties, Leary,” Admiral James said. He suddenly laughed. “I was young once too. But you go back and make the RCN proud of you.”
The admiral tossed off the rest of his whiskey. As Daniel turned he thought James had started to smile.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Officer Mundy,” said a secretary who sounded more hostile than regretful. Thick whitewashed walls made the room much more comfortable than the sun-blasted street; the only illumination bounced in from high windows onto a light shaft, though the small lamp on the desk could be lit if needed. “Master Torregrossa is out today and I don’t expect him back. You might try his estate on Exos.”
A two-stroke engine fired up, then drove down the dirt street more slowly than the high-pitched jingle from its cooling fins suggested that it should. Rather than a scooter, it must power a jitney like the one that’d brought Adele here with Tovera and Cazelet.
Cazelet stepped past Adele and took the stylus which the secretary was holding upright on the desk. “What do you think you’re—” the fellow protested, but he subsided to watch Cazelet bend over the notepad and began writing. He cupped his free hand to conceal the note from his companions.
Adele didn’t comment, but when she realized that she’d started to dip into the pocket of her tunic she smiled coldly. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t grounds for shooting Cazelet instantly.
Cazelet held the pad up to the secretary’s eyes, then ripped the note off and crumpled it into his pocket. The stylus and the pad, facedown, flopped onto the desktop.
“We’ll see Torregrossa now, Ameneni,” he said. He didn’t raise his voice, but the syllables snapped like sparks. “If he’s not in the building, you’ll have him here in an hour or it’ll be the worse for you.”
Tovera grinned like a snake.
“I’m very sorry, Patron,” the secretary said. “He’s here, yes, in his office on the third floor.”
He pointed to an unmarked door in the sidewall.
“I’ll ring ahead, or would you rather . . . ?”
Cazelet glanced at Adele and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, announce us,” she said. “This is a friendly call.”
That’d been her intention, anyway. It still was, but friendliness wasn’t quite so high a priority as it’d been before the shipping agent directed his secretary to lie to them.
“The boy next,” Tovera said. She opened the door and started up the staircase. Her attaché case was open, and her hand was inside it.
“Yes, all right,” Adele said. She didn’t appr
ove of Tovera’s paranoia, but there was no reason that Cazelet shouldn’t be in the middle. She smiled wryly. Among other things, that put Adele in a better position to deal with anyone coming up the stairs behind them.
“There’re Diamondian factors all over the Galactic West,” Cazelet said, turning his head back toward her slightly. “Two of Torregrossa’s cousins have done business of various sorts with Phoenix Starfreight.”
“And you remembered that?” Adele said as her soft-soled boots scraped and whisked on the stair treads.
“No, mistress,” said Cazelet. “But I brought the Phoenix database with me from Blythe and checked it against shippers on Diamondia when you told me what you were going to do.”
Joseph Torregrossa, a dark-skinned little man in a cream business suit, leaned over the railing at the top of the stairs. The upturned points of his mustache were as sharp as styluses.
“Master Cazelet!” he said. “This is so unexpected—as you must see. I regret if my secretary Bhanu misunderstood your colleague’s question!”
“That’s all right, Torregrossa,” said Cazelet as he reached the top of the stairs. His voice was as harsh as if he rather than Tovera were pointing a sub-machine gun. “So long as you don’t misunderstand me. Let’s go into your office.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” said the little man. He swept a bead curtain clatteringly back with his left arm. When Cazelet curtly gestured, however, Torregrossa obediently stepped inside ahead of his guests.
Adele paused a moment before following the others, then entered with a faint smile. Though the curtain seemed only a visual barrier, it marked the edge of an active sound-cancellation system. No one outside could hear what was said in the office.
Torregrossa seated himself on the low dais against the wall to the left of the door; a fountain played in a waist-high alcove directly opposite. The remaining vertical surfaces were covered in traceries in high relief, molded rather than carved but astonishingly intricate nonetheless.
Cushions lay on the dais and around the walls, but there was no furniture; a virtual keyboard shimmered in the air before Torregrossa, however. The office was atmospheric but by no means low-tech.
“I was pained to hear the news of your father, Patron,” Torregrossa said with unctuous care. “Please allow me to offer my condolences.”
Cazelet grunted as he settled cross-legged onto a cushion covered with gleaming brocade. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Torregrossa,” he said. “Give me a quick rundown on this Independent Republic of Bagaria or whatever they’re calling it.”
“Ah!” said Torregrossa, spreading his hands wide. “Then you mean . . . ?”
“I mean that I want your analysis of the Bagarian situation,” Cazelet said roughly. “And I need you to turn over your full electronic files to my colleague Mundy, here.”
He nodded toward her. Adele sat primly erect, her data unit in her lap. Her wands twitched as she began by emulating the device waiting for Torregrossa’s input.
“But that can wait. For now, what’s your view of the Bagarian Republic?”
Adele was comfortable enough. She’d have preferred to sit directly on the floor instead of on this slick-finished cushion, but it would do. This had become Cazelet’s show and she didn’t intend to draw attention to herself.
Torregrossa laughed and interleaved his fingers repeatedly in the visual equivalent of tutting. “Well, there’s a great deal of money to be made in the short term,” he said. “I scarcely need to tell a Cazelet that, do I? They’re a gang of criminals, worse than Platt, the Cluster Governor. There was only one of him, you see. The ministers of this new republic think they should be as rich as the governor was . . . and very shortly, they all are.”
“What’s the state of the Bagarian navy?” Adele asked, as much to see how Torregrossa responded as for the answer itself.
Torregrossa looked at her, then toward Cazelet with a raised eyebrow.
Cazelet made a quick wiping motion with his left hand. “Treat any question my colleague asks as a question from me,” he said irritably. “Treat it as a question from my father!”
“As you wish, Patron,” the factor said, dipping his head in a hint of a bow. “Whatever you and your noble father wish.”
He turned slightly. “Mistress Mundy,” he said, “there are ships and they are armed. Whether they have crews, that I do not know. The new ministry isn’t good about letting pay trickle down to those on the bottom where the common spacers lie. There is desertion, there will be more desertions. But—”
He raised an index finger for attention. His nails were almond-shaped and had been tinted the soft pink of early dawn.
“—so long as all they have against them’s a Cluster Command, they’re enough. The Alliance’s got some ships on Churchyard. The governor hides on Conyers with antiship missiles around him. Generalissima DeMarce and her little rebel friends’ll play in the rest of the cluster. When the Alliance takes care of its business with Cinnabar or the other way around, it matters little. . . .”
Torregrossa spread his hands and contemplated the perfect nails. “It’ll go hard, then, on the Generalissima and her ministers, whichever ones have survived their fellows’ greed, that is. But there’s money to be made by a firm big enough to take advantage of the situation. Not Torregrossa Brothers alone, no. But perhaps . . .”
He raised an eyebrow toward Cazelet.
“Perhaps . . .” he continued, “Phoenix Starfreight in cooperation with Torregrossa Brothers? We have good contacts in the cluster, you know that, Patron.”
“I told you already that you’ll need to provide all the information you’ve got to my colleague,” Cazelet said. “Indeed, perhaps you could provide her with access right now while we’re all here.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Adele as she slipped the wands into the case of her data unit. She stood. “I have the data. Master Cazelet, I believe the best use of our time now will be to begin analyzing it back aboard the Princess Cecile.”
Cazelet rose by straightening his legs without touching a hand to the floor. Tovera had remained standing at the side of the doorway, her off-white suit blending with the delicate moldings.
“I assure you that your colleague does not have the information, Patron,” Torregrossa said sharply. “While I have the greatest respect for you and your father, Torregrossa Brothers must respectfully refuse to unlock our files until there’s been an agreement on, let us say, the division of the spoils between our companies.”
“Thank you for your time, Torregrossa,” Cazelet said, turning to follow Adele through the door.
“My files are protected!” Torregrossa said. “You cannot enter them!”
“If Lady Mundy says she’s copied your files, worm,” Tovera said, “then it’s as true as if I tell you I’ll shoot your eyes out if you raise your voice to her again.”
She lifted the sub-machine gun from her case, then giggled.
“I will shoot your eyes out if you raise your voice to her again,” Tovera said. “In fact, maybe I’ll shoot them out anyway.”
“Put that away, Tovera,” Adele snapped as she started back down the stairs. “We have work to do.”
“Yes, mistress,” Tovera said in a chastened tone. She concealed the gun again but didn’t latch the case closed. Over her shoulder she called cheerfully, “But perhaps I’ll be seeing you again soon, worm. I’ll look forward to that!”
Chapter Eight
PORT DELACROIX, DIAMONDIA
Daniel kept a real-time exterior panorama running at the top of his display as he readied the Princess Cecile for liftoff. It didn’t seem to him that the sky was brighter than it’d been a few minutes before, but now the water of the harbor shimmered in pale reflection.
“Six, this is Three,” announced Pasternak on the command channel. “We’re ready to light thrusters, over.”
Daniel glanced at his holographic display. The Power Room readouts and the PPI shared the body of the tank, with a
n astrogational screen scrunched up below. He’d expand that last as soon as they made orbit and it had immediate bearing on his actions.
He keyed a two-way link, beyond the ability of anybody else on the Sissie to hear, and said, “Adele, when can we lift?”
“In two minutes, fifty . . . three seconds, Daniel,” Adele said calmly. “After that we have a window of ninety-two minutes if you wish to wait.”
“Roger,” Daniel said, realizing that she wasn’t going to close her transmission. “Thank you, Adele. Break, Pasternak? You can start lighting them in thirty seconds, over.”
“Roger, Three out,” muttered Pasternak as he broke the connection.
On the PPI the destroyers Echo and Encounter patrolled at the edge of the planetary defense array. They couldn’t stop a major attack, but they kept the Alliance minesweepers at a distance from the array. The sweepers had the laborious task of slinging metallic junk toward the nuclear mines using electromagnetic charges; generally the projectors’d been modified from automatic impellers. Eventually a pellet would hit and neutralize the target; then the clearance vessel moved on to the next.
It was a dangerous job, too. Mines could be set at greater than the usual sensitivity so that they’d go off when a target was as much as a hundred thousand miles away. Though focused, the jet of X-rays wouldn’t be dangerous even to a corvette at that range, but a mine-clearance vessel, basically a lifeboat, would crumple into lifeless, drifting slag.
Thrusters One and Eight lighted, licking glittering plumes of steam from the harbor. The Governor’s Residence wasn’t directly visible from the Sissie’s berth, but Daniel wondered whether Admiral James was watching remote imagery of the liftoff. No reason he should, of course. . . .
Daniel didn’t know how Adele’d determined when the Princess Cecile should lift, but he assumed she’d based the determination on enemy commo traffic. The Alliance patrolled in the vicinity of Diamondia on a regular basis. Usually that involved a squadron of four cruisers and accompanying destroyers passing close to the minefield to chase any RCN ships in orbit back to harbor.