Mrs. Petrel swept out of the sitting room, head high, the two white streaks merging to make a V-shape in the heavy fan of hair across her shoulders. Gretchen stared in surprise at the handwritten card in her hand. The front read: "Mrs. Gretchen Anderssen is invited to my party" while the back had an address – also in green ink and the same crisp hand – a date and time.
"How…did she know I have children? How did she know my name?" Anderssen stepped out into the hallway and caught sight of Mrs. Petrel sailing past a quartet of armed guards, the tall, thin shape of a manservant following quietly behind. Seeing him, Gretchen realized he'd been in the background the whole time, silent and as much a part of the paneled walls as the wood itself. "Well."
She laughed, feeling tension ebb from her chest. "I should say, I never. I think I'd better sit down for a minute and get my breath back. What a bracing person."
The chairs were far more comfortable than they looked and Gretchen took a moment to key "Court of the Yellow Flagstones" into her comp. Good lodgings – and she was certain the White Lily was excellent and probably reasonably priced – were worth more than a woman's weight in quills in this business. She couldn't help but smile.
I hope Maggie and Parker are doing all right. Oh, bother! I'd better call them about the hotel.
A Nondescript House Near the Tomb of Gharlane the Mad, Parus
Lachlan's image turned sideways, alarm plain on his young face. "An unexpected hyperspace transit, mi'lady." He tapped a glyph on his end and Itzpalicue watched with interest as a navigational plot unfolded on a spare display. "A relatively small ship…'casting Fleet ident codes…here we are, an Astronomer-class light cruiser, the Henry R. Cornuelle."
The old woman bared her teeth moodily. "A late arrival for Battle Group 88?"
"Not on the squadron list," Lachlan replied, scratching the edge of a stubbled jaw. Like Itzpalicue, work had replaced sleep on his schedule. "Fleet records say…the Cornuelle is assigned to deep range patrol in the Hittite sector. One zone to core from here. Commander of record is Mitsuharu Hadeishi, a Nisei from New Edo on Angehuac…"
The old woman grunted and sat up a little straighter.
"…graduate Fleet Academy, this is his third deep space command, no notable clan affiliation, sponsor list is…empty?" Lachlan frowned, looking up at her. "How did he get an independent cruiser command?"
"Consider his service record, child." Itzpalicue stifled a yawn. She had been working long hours, racing to keep ahead of the Flower Priests. Spyeye deployment had gone well, but high levels of acid rain were causing intermittent problems with the relay grids. She plucked a maguey spine from her sleeve – one of dozens carefully pinched through the cloth – and pricked her cheek. A stab of pain cleared her mind, leaving a tiny crimson dab on a cheekbone serrated with a closely spaced pattern of puckered scars.
"…sixteenth in his class at the Academy," Lachlan was reading, growing more puzzled with each entry in Commander Hadeishi's personnel jacket. "Fourth in tactical exercises, second in overall efficiency, high marks from his science instructors, winner of the Graymont Exercise three years in a row, very good rating in engineering, management skills, composure under fire."
"Yes." Itzpalicue had already scanned the records herself. "Do you see the note from the senior chief petty officer of the Shoryu concerning his first tour of duty?"
Lachlan flipped to the appropriate page, green eyes searching through the records.
"Sho-i Hadeishi," he said slowly, digesting the passage, "is as fine an officer as I've had the honor to serve with aboard any ship of the Fleet." Lachlan leaned back in his seat, staring at the old woman. "High praise from a thirty-year joto-heiso on a Fleet heavy carrier. But he has no friends noted at Court, or on the Heavenly Mountain, no heavyweight pochteca backing him up, he's not married to an admiral's daughter…he's no one at all."
Itzpalicue nodded, a pleased smile beginning to seep into her wrinkled old face. "He is an exemplary officer, Lachlan-tzin. An honorable credit to his family – though by their surname they are not of noble birth, so perhaps they do not care – and to the Fleet. You see why he is here?"
The Йirishman nodded, biting his lower lip. "Ship's been two years out of refit or a Fleet base. Must be worn down to the nub. Hmmm…four recent engagements with 'hostile elements.' Three confirmed counter-privateer kills, including a Tyr-class refinery ship. Five stationside or colony disputes settled by force of arms. Greeting squirt to Admiral Villeneuve reports his ship is at seventy percent capability due to crew casualties and mechanical attrition. Well! The commander has been keeping busy out in the big dark."
"Battle group 88 has a Fleet mobile repair dock assigned?" Itzpalicue was considering a picture – now several years out of date – of Hadeishi. A thin little man with an intelligent face, narrow beard and pencil-thin mustache. She imagined he would laugh easily, sitting around a low table with his friends, drinking sake and listening to a samisen player. The edge of her thumb, polished sharp and reinforced to razor sharpness with layers of rebonded polytetrafluoroethylene, tapped slowly against a list of 'associated persons.' The list was not part of Hadeishi's public Fleet jacket.
The Mirror took care to watch the activities of ship commanders, even ones who barely existed from a political point of view. At some time in the past, a 'mouse' had observed Chu-sa Hadeishi speaking in a familiar way with a certain person. An individual Itzpalicue knew and detested, not solely because he was an Imperial Judge – a nauallis – or what the credulous would call a sorcerer. Unlike everything else in the Empire, the activities of the nauallis were kept well hidden from the Mirror. Of course the rival organizations took great interest in one another's doings. The old woman's lips tightened in remembered anger, considering the name.
Her eyes moved on, coming to rest on a red-flagged Admiralty note at the bottom of the record. Ah, I see why our brave captain has stayed in the shadows so long… He has been avoiding fate.
"He must be looking to refit with the battle group while the Flingers-of-Stone are in-system." Lachlan rubbed one of his eyes. The medical readout showed him close to complete exhaustion. "Or use the battle group tachyon relay to get recalled by Nineteenth Fleet. So…he's shot off every sprint missile in his stores. His beam weapon mounts must be caked solid with particle flux. Shipskin and armor are barely hanging to the hull. This ship desperately needs to recycle at a repair base."
The old woman pursed her lips. "This ship was placed under orders months ago to return to Toroson to be decommissioned. Commander Hadeishi is very tardy in returning from his patrol." She considered the message traffic passing between the Cornuelle and the battle group's tachyon relay. "He's reporting damage to the last message drone – how convenient…"
"That won't matter," Lachlan said, yawning again. "All the queued mail and orders are dumping to his main comp now – he'll have to make transit for the Fleet Base within a day or so."
Itzpalicue shook her head, decision crystallizing even as she considered the matter. "No. The Holy Mother is watching over our shoulders, Lachlan-tzin. This is one of our missing elements, cast down from heaven to serve our purpose."
"Mi'lady?" Lachlan was noticeably surprised.
"The Cornuelle will serve as Elder Warrior's sacrifice for the exercise about to commence on the planet. Pass my desire on to the Flower Priest handling such things. Have them cut Hadeishi new orders, delaying his return to Toroson until after our activities here are complete."
The young Йirishman stared at her in dismay for a moment, then shook himself, nodded and turned away to key up the appropriate comm channel. He said nothing about her decision, as was proper.
Itzpalicue tapped the public personnel jacket closed without a further thought. Her attention, as always, turned back to the banks of video feeds reflecting the spyeyes over Parus, or relaying local holocast and voice-only transmissions. Her room was close and still, filled with the birdlike cries of thousands of chattering voices. One sharp fingernail continued to tap
slowly on the list of persons associated with the so-able Commander Hadeishi.
Huitziloxoctic. Green Hummingbird.
How fine to meet the friend of an old…acquaintance
The captain's launch from the Cornuelle drifted through an enormous airlock, the slow pulse of guide-lights illuminating the boat's ebon exterior. Inside the landing bay, every surface gleamed white and gray, sharply illuminated by banks of lights on the overhead. A boat bay unfolded in complete silence to engulf the smaller craft. Inside, Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi felt the clamps lock on and snug tight. Darkness fell across the forward windows as they were drawn into the cradle.
He was a little puzzled. The usual flood of orders, directives and paperwork from Fleet had included a general reassignment order for the Cornuelle, attaching the light cruiser to the Tecaltan battle group. There had been no sign of their original orders to report to Toroson. The promotions and other personnel assignment papers had not reappeared either.
Very odd, Hadeishi thought, but he was relieved enough not to question the Gods of the Fleet. Not right now at least.
Ship-to-ship chatter between the launch pilot and traffic control on the DN-120 Tehuia was quiet and professional, never rising above a soothing murmur. The launch trembled and then all vibration ceased as the maneuvering engines shut down. Hadeishi sat quietly, letting his crewmen do their jobs, savoring the idle moment. He was uncomfortably aware of burn marks around the boat airlock and panels patched back into place with a hand welder. The decking under his feet was badly discolored. Ah, he remembered, we must have used the launch at Argentosonae, when we ambushed the Megair attacking the mining station. Every man with a weapon was needed that day.
The memory was already tinged with melancholy.
The lock cycled open, environmental lights shining green, and Hadeishi unfastened his shock harness before kicking out into the tube leading onto the Fleet dreadnaught. Two Marines in shipside duty dress were waiting, arms presented. The men flanked a young, blonde Sho-i with fine-boned European features. She bowed gracefully as Hadeishi swung out into gravity, both feet landing solidly on the 'welcome mat' inside the reception bay.
"Commander Hadeishi? Welcome aboard the Stonesmasher. I am Ensign Huppert."
The Chu-sa bowed in return, taking care to keep his face expressionless. He was rather surprised for the Sho-i to greet him in Norman, rather than Admiralty Japanese. Despite the dissonance between expectation and reality, he showed no reaction.
"A pleasure, Ensign. I understand a Fleet general staff meeting is scheduled? I would like to report to my division commander and, if possible, tender my regards to Admiral Villeneuve."
"Of course, sir." Huppert bowed again. "There is a gathering of the battle group officers underway – though I must tell you it is not a staff meeting. You should be able to find Captain Jamison – he's senior cruiser division commander – there, as well as the Admiral."
The young woman gestured Hadeishi into a waiting tube-car. The Marines were already gone – a light cruiser commander did not rate an escort, not on a fast dreadnaught carrying a Fleet Admiral. Huppert sat opposite, hands clasped on her knees.
For a moment, Hadeishi considered starting a conversation. The ensign seemed personable enough to respond in kind, but something – a queer, itchy sensation along his spine – bade him sit quietly, staring without focus at the wall of the tube-car. Huppert did not seem to mind, her pleasant half-smile remaining in place during the ten-minute transit the length of the massive ship.
The ensign stood just before the car slid noiselessly to a halt. "Flag Officer's country, commander." Huppert was not smiling openly, but her grass-green eyes twinkled in anticipation. "The Admiral does not believe in stinting as a host, particularly not when his line commanders are aboard."
The tube-car door slid up and the sound of odd, lilting, music flooded into the car. Hadeishi stepped out onto the transit platform, one eyebrow rising uncontrollably. Music – live music; he could distinguish a slightly out-of-tune cello behind the most vibrant sound – was playing not too far away. The acoustic paneling in the ship corridors deadened most of the flowing music, but the piece was unmistakable.
"This is Berlioz's Messe Solennelle?"
Huppert nodded. "Very astute, commander. The Admiral believes shipboard service should not be…cheerless."
"Live musicians?" Hadeishi followed the ensign, though he nearly missed a step when he realized the floor was covered with rich, heavy carpets. The usually plain shipboard bulkheads were covered with thin, filmy patterned hangings. Actual oil paintings, if the unforgettable aroma of linseed, turpentine and canvas was not produced by a sensorium, were spaced every ten meters or so. The illustrations seemed garish and overdone to his eye, filled with fantastically overripe flowers, rosy-cheeked peasants and bucolic scenes drawn from a rural milieu centuries dead.
"The Admiral approves of the men's hobbies. He supports those with talent – talent beyond simple duty, of course. The flagship maintains an orchestra for the men's entertainment."
The itchy feeling grew worse. Huppert paced into a doorway and the music was drowned by the clatter and chime of crystal, people talking carelessly and the rustling of hundreds of men and women in freshly starched dress uniforms. Hadeishi slowed half a step, one hand automatically adjusting his collar and the line of his jacket. His first thought, seeing so many officers in one place, was to wonder how deep in the Tehuia they were. Would a Khaid antimatter cluster be stopped by ship's armor before incinerating every line captain in this room? Are their executive officers here too? Who is standing watch on their ships? Ensigns and midshipmen?
"Commander?" Huppert turned and beckoned him through the doorway. Mustering himself, Hadeishi stepped into the officer's mess, slightly narrowed eyes taking in the field of battle. I will never begrudge my uniform allowance again, he thought, stricken morose by the gaudy sight before him. And I will listen to my dear Kosho and buy a very, very nice, custom-tailored dress uniform. As soon as I can.
The flag officer's ward room of the Stonesmasher was very large – probably the size of one of the assault shuttle bays on the Cornuelle – and besides an elevated stage holding nearly an entire orchestra, more than a hundred officers mingled in the open space. Long rows of tables, positively glowing with silver, crystal and porcelain, were waiting for the dinner gong to sound. A vaulted roof seemed to soar overhead, filled with chandeliers and a gilded, rococo ceiling. Clouds of tabac smoke coiled up, vanishing into hidden vents.
I do hope that ceiling is a holocast, Hadeishi thought, coming to a numb halt beside Huppert.
Huppert was speaking quietly into his ear, trying to point out who was who, but one singular fact had already impressed itself on the Chu-sa.
He was the only Nisei officer – the only non-European face – he could see in the entire room. No one seemed to have noticed his arrival, for which he was now unaccountably grateful.
"An interesting staff meeting…" he started to say.
"As I said, Commander…" Huppert's fingertips pressed against his arm. "Not so much a staff meeting, but the Admiral's Dinner. Once a week the Admiral likes to have all of his ship commanders over to dine, have a few drinks, get to know each other. Very convivial."
"I see." Hadeishi tried not to move his head, but his eyes flitted along the walls, searching for the quiet, unassuming presence of security officers from the Mirror, or a nauallis or anything which might make this loud, cheerful gathering look less like the kind of treason which gave loyal Fleet captains ulcer-ridden, sleepless nights. I must already be on camera, too.
A ringing tone cut through the murmur, and everyone turned towards the tables.
"But after the meal, you must make yourself known to Flag Captain Plamondon. He's the Fleet operations officer and the Admiral's exec." The pretty ensign took him by the elbow and began to guide Hadeishi towards his seat. Her hand was very firm.
A Fleet cargo shuttle, solar-flare blazon of the Cornuelle visible on t
he side doors, steam hissing up from triangular wings, rolled to a halt in the cavernous space of a groundside hangar. Ground crew jogged out, heads down, to slide chocks fore and aft of the wheels. A gangway levered down, and the hatchway swung up.
Shoi-i Daniel Smith swung down the ladder, sweat springing out across his grinning pale face, and he went immediately down on one knee and kissed oil-stained concrete. "Terra firma," he declared, wiping his mouth and standing up. "Almost one g, too!"
"Aren't you supposed to be our commanding officer?" Marine Heicho Felix slid down the ladder and took a careful look around the hanger, one hand on the stock of her assault rifle, before relaxing a little. Satisfied the immediate area was clear of danger – the hangar looked like every other Fleet maintenance facility she'd ever seen – she gestured Helsdon and his technicians down out of the aircraft. "Take a little care, kyo."
"Here?" Smith waved a negligent hand around, indicating the fuel gurney being wheeled out by two Fleet crewmen, the mammoth shape of an assault shuttle filling most of the hangar, and the exposed wooden ribs of the huge building. "We can breathe the air, we're in the middle of a Fleet base with three brigades of combat troops around us, I have my medband on…" He held up a skinny, fish-belly-pale wrist to show her. "…and…Lord of Hosts, what is that divine smell?"
Felix turned slowly, brown eyes narrowed, and tucked thick, black hair behind her ear. There was a smell – pungent, oily, sharp as a knife, tart with something familiar…
"Oh. Oh oh." Smith moved spasmodically forward, a glazed look in his eyes. "I smell roasting meat, Heicho. I smell…barbacoa! With chГles and onions! Real, fresh onions. Are those tripas? Someone's cooking real food!"
Felix took hold of his collar, dragging the midshipman back. Smith was easily a head taller than Felix, but he didn't work out in the Cornuelle's gymnasium every single day, without fail. On a small ship like the Henry R., a great deal of work was done in low or zero-g conditions. Fleet didn't bother to lay in grav-decking in every crew space, only in primary crew quarters, the mess and exercise spaces. The Marine had no trouble keeping her officer from charging across the flight line.
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