by David Weber
He turned away, adding his own fierce glare to the admiral’s. The stocky officer who was the object of that hot scrutiny did not seem notably abashed. Zilwicki’s face was expressionless.
“Still!” Hendricks took a deep breath. “We should have been able to start the whole thing with a flourish. Instead—” He waved angrily at the window.
Young leaned forward across his desk, tapping the disk. “Instead, all everyone’s talking about is the so-called Peep–Manpower War. Who wants to watch testimony in a chamber, when the casters can show you a half-wrecked Peep embassy and a completely wrecked Manpower headquarters?” He snorted. “Not to mention the so-called”—his next words came hissing—“ ‘drama’ of Mesa’s slave revenge. With most of their pros gone, Manpower was a sitting duck. Especially with that terrorist Jeremy X on the loose. Christ, they didn’t leave anyone alive over there.”
For the first time since he’d entered the admiral’s office, Captain Zilwicki spoke.
“None of the secretaries in Manpower’s HQ were so much as scratched. Your Lordship.”
The glares were hot, hot. But, still, the officer seemed unconcerned.
“Dead—stinking—meat,” Young repeated, emphasizing each word. He straightened up. The next words came briskly.
“You are relieved of your duties and ordered to report directly to Navy headquarters in the Star Kingdom to account for your actions. Technically, you are not under arrest, but that’s purely a formality. You will remain in your private quarters until such time as the next courier ship is ready to depart. In the meantime—”
“I’ll be leaving immediately, Your Lordship. I’ve already made the arrangements.”
The admiral stumbled to a halt, staring at Zilwicki.
That moment, the admiral’s secretary stuck his head through the door. The admiral had deliberately left the door open, so that the entire staff could overhear his dealings with Zilwicki.
The secretary’s face was a mixture of concern and bewilderment.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Your Lordship, but Lady Catherine Montaigne is here and insists on seeing you immediately.”
The admiral’s frown was one of pure confusion. From the side, the ambassador gave a start of surprise.
“Montaigne?” he demanded. “What in the hell does that lunatic want?”
His answer came from the lunatic herself. The Lady Catherine Montaigne trotted past the secretary and into the room. She bestowed a sunny smile on the ambassador. Her cheerful peasant face clashed a bit with her very expensive clothing.
“Please, Lord Hendricks! A certain courtesy is expected between Peers of the Realm. In private, at least.”
She removed the absurdly elaborate hat perched on her head and fluttered it. “In public, of course, you’re welcome to call me whatever you want.” The smile grew very sunny indeed. “Now that I think about it, I believe I once referred to you as a horse’s ass in one of my speeches.”
The smile was transferred onto Admiral Young and grew positively radiant. “And I am quite certain that I’ve publicly labeled the entire Young clan as a herd of swine. Oh, on any number of occasions! Although—” Here the smile quirked an apologetic corner. “I can’t recall if I ever singled you out in particular, Eddie. But I assure you I will make good the lack at the very first opportunity. Of which I expect to have any number, since I’m planning a speaking tour immediately upon my return.”
It took a moment for the last few words to penetrate the indignation of the ambassador and the admiral.
Hendricks frowned. “Return? Return where?”
“To the Star Kingdom, of course. Where else? I feel a sudden overwhelming impulse to revisit my native land. Thinking of moving back permanently, in fact.”
She glanced at her watch. The timepiece seemed more like a mass of precious gems than a utilitarian object. It quite overwhelmed her slender wrist. “My private yacht departs within the hour.”
The smile was now bestowed on Captain Zilwicki. And what had been a radiant expression took on warmth as well.
“Are you ready, Captain?”
Zilwicki’s square head jerked a nod. “I believe so, Lady Catherine.” He peered at the admiral. “I think the admiral is finished with me. His instructions were quite clear and precise.”
Young gaped at him.
Zilwicki’s shoulders twitched in a minute shrug. “Apparently so. With your permission then, Your Lordships, I will do as I am commanded. Immediately.”
Young was still gaping. Hendricks found his voice.
“Zilwicki, are you mad? You’re in enough trouble already!” The ambassador goggled the tall and slender noblewoman. “If you return to Manticore in the company of this—this—”
“Peer of the Realm,” Lady Catherine drawled. “In case you’d forgotten.”
The smile made no pretense, any longer, of disguising its contempt. “And—in case you’d forgotten—I am thereby required to provide Her Majesty’s armed forces with my assistance whenever possible. That is the law, Lord Hendricks, even if that herd of Young swine and your own brood of suckling piglets choose to ignore it at your convenience.”
She laid a slim-fingered hand on the shoulder of the captain. As broad and short as he was, they made an odd looking pair. She was a good six inches taller than he. Yet, somehow, Zilwicki did not seem to shrink in the contrast. It seemed more as if Lady Catherine was in orbit around him.
“So—I must see to it that Captain Zilwicki is brought before the Judge Advocate General as soon as possible, to face the serious charges laid against him. And since I was leaving at once anyway, because of my other pressing responsibility to the Crown, I would be remiss in my duty as a peer if I did not provide the captain with transport.”
Again, it took a moment for the words to register.
Admiral Young finally stopped gaping. “What ‘other’ responsibility?” he demanded.
Lady Catherine’s eyes grew a bit round. “Oh, you hadn’t heard? It seems that the self-destruct mechanism in Manpower’s vault failed to operate properly. When those savage Ballroom terrorists wreaked their havoc on Manpower’s headquarters, they were able to salvage most of the records from the computers. I received a copy, sent by an anonymous party.”
She planted the hat back on her head. “I haven’t had time to study it fully, of course—such voluminous records—but it didn’t take me more than a minute to realize that the information needs to be presented to the Queen as soon as possible. You all know how much Elizabeth detests genetic slavery. She’s said so in public—oh, I can’t keep track of all the times! And in private, her opinion is even more volcanic.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a hot-tempered woman. I worry about her health, sometimes.”
The smile was back. “Elizabeth and I were childhood friends, you know. Did I fail to mention that? Oh, yes. Very close, at one time. Our relations have been strained for years, naturally, due to political differences. But I’m quite certain she’ll want to speak to me on this subject. And Lady Harrington also, of course. I’ve never met her personally, but my butler Isaac is an old acquaintance.”
She’d left them completely befuddled, now. The smile widened. “You didn’t know? How odd, I thought everyone did. Isaac was one of the slaves Lady Harrington freed—well, she wasn’t a peer in those days, of course, just another commoner naval officer—when she smashed up the depot at Casimir. I’m sure she’d agree to see him again, to allow him to present his overdue thanks. Along with a copy of these records. Quite certain of it.”
Her hand squeezed Zilwicki’s shoulder. “Captain?”
“Your servant, Lady Catherine.”
A moment later, they were gone. The two men remaining in the room stared at each other. Their faces were already growing pale.
“Records?” choked Hendricks.
The admiral ignored him. He was already scrabbling for the communicator. In the minutes which followed, while Hendricks paced out his agitation, Young simply sat there. Listening to h
is chief legal officer explain to him, over and again, that he had neither the legal grounds—nor, more to the point here on Terra, the police authority—to detain a Manticoran Peer of the Realm engaged in the Queen’s business.
Victor
As he leaned over the railing on the upper level of the terminal, studying the small party below getting ready to enter the embarkment area, Victor had mixed emotions. Which, sad to say, seemed destined to be his normal state. He almost felt regret for past simplicities and certitudes.
Almost. Not quite.
He heard a chuckle. The big man standing next to him, with the very pretty woman nestled under his arm, had—as usual—read his mind. Victor was almost getting tired of that also.
Almost. Not quite.
“Grotesque, isn’t it?” mused Usher. “All that obscene wealth, in the hands of a single person? You could feed a small town for a year on what a private yacht like that costs.”
Victor said nothing. He had learned that much, at least. One thing at a time.He didn’t want to hear the lecture again.
“What do you think he’s saying to her?” he asked.
Usher’s eyes moved, focusing on the girl below. She was giving a fierce hug to the small man who had accompanied the party to the terminal.
“Well, let’s see. He’s probably stopped chiding her for using the Owl By Night. And he’s probably already told her exactly which schools to investigate, once she gets to Manticore.” A large hand came up and rubbed his jaw. “So I imagine he’s simply telling her the kind of things which she really needs to know. Things from the heart, so to speak.”
Below, the embrace ended. With the quick motions of someone steadying loss with new determination, Helen Zilwicki marched her entire party to the gate. There were six people in the party. Her father and Lady Catherine and Isaac brought up the rear. In the front, nestled under Helen’s wings, her new brother and sister advanced toward a new life. Master Tye alone remained behind, simply staring.
Usher turned away from the railing. “And that’s that. Come on, Victor. It’s time for Ginny and me to introduce you to a new vice.”
Victor followed obediently. He didn’t even grimace at the gibe.
“Good lad,” murmured Usher. “You’ll like it, I promise. And if the elitism bothers you, just use the plebe word for it. Movies.”
He leaned over, smiling at his wife. “Which one, d’you think?”
“Casablanca,” came the immediate reply.
“Good choice!” Kevin draped his other arm over Victor. “I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Helen
On the second night of their journey home, her father didn’t return to their suite on the yacht. Once she was sure he wasn’t going to, Helen made up her bed on the couch in the small salon. It took her a while to settle Lars and Berry for the night, in the stateroom which she was sharing with them. Partly, because something of her own good cheer seemed to infuse them. But mostly it was because they were afraid of sleeping without her.
“Come on!” she snapped. “We aren’t going to be sharing a bed forever, you know.” She eyed the huge and luxurious piece of furniture. “Not one like this, anyway. Not with Daddy on half-pay, at best.”
She did not seem noticeably upset at the prospect of future poverty. Lars and Berry, of course, were not upset at all. Their new father’s “half” pay was a fortune to them.
“Get to sleep!” Helen commanded. She turned off the lights. “Tonight belongs to Daddy. And tomorrow morning too.”
* * *
In the time which followed, Helen set her clever alarms. She did the work with the same enthusiasm with which she had spent the evening designing them.
But, in the event, the alarms proved unnecessary. She never managed to sleep herself. So, when she heard her father coming through the outer doors, early in the morning, she had time to disengage them before he entered. She even had time to perch herself back on the couch. Grinning from ear to ear.
The door to the salon opened and her father tiptoed in. He spotted her and froze. Helen fought to restrain her giggles. Talk about role reversal.
“So!” she piped. “How was she?”
Her father flushed. Helen laughed and clapped her hands with glee. She had never managed to do that!
Her father straightened, glared at her, and then managed a laugh himself.
“Rascal,” he growled. But the growl came with a rueful smile, and he padded over to the couch. The moment he sat down next to her, Helen scrambled into his lap.
Surprise crossed her father’s face. Helen had not sat in his lap for years. Too undignified; too childish.
The look of surprise vanished, replaced by something very warm. A film of tears came into his eyes. A moment later, Helen felt herself crushed against him, by those powerful wrestler’s arms. Her own vision was a bit blurry.
She wiped away the tears. Whimsy, dammit!
“I bet she snores.” She’d planned that sentence for hours. She thought it came out just right.
Again, her father growled. “Rascal.” Silence, for a moment, while he pressed her close, kissing her hair. Then:
“Yeah, she does.”
“Oh, good,” whispered Helen. The whimsical humor she’d planned for that remark was absent, however. There was nothing in it but satisfaction. “I like that.”
Her father chuckled. “So do I, oddly enough. So do I.” He stroked and stroked her hair. “Any problem with it, sugar?”
Helen shook her head firmly. “Nope. Not any.” She pressed her head against her father’s chest, as if listening to his heartbeat. “I want you full again.”
“So do I, sugar.” Stroked and stroked her hair. “So do I.”
Nightfall
by David Weber
“Citizen General Fontein is here, Sir.”
Oscar Saint-Just looked up as Sean Caminetti, his private secretary, ushered a colorless, wizened little man into his office. No one could have looked less like the popular conception of a brilliant and ruthless security agent than Erasmus Fontein. Except, perhaps for Saint-Just himself.
“Thank you, Sean.” He nodded permission for the secretary to withdraw, and then turned his attention fully to his guest. Unlike most people summoned to Saint-Just’s inner sanctum, Fontein calmly walked across to his favorite chair, lowered himself into it with neither hesitation or any sign of trepidation, waited while its surface adjusted to the contours of his body, then cocked his head at his chief.
“You wanted to see me?” he inquired, and Saint-Just snorted.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way. Not,” he added, “that I’m not always happy to visit with you, of course. We have so few opportunities to spend quality time together.” Fontein smiled faintly at the humor Saint-Just allowed so few people to see, but the smile faded as the Citizen Secretary for State Security went on in a much more serious tone.
“Actually, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I called you in to discuss McQueen.”
“I had guessed,” Fontein admitted. “It wasn’t hard, especially given how unhappy she was to move ahead on Operation Bagration.”
“That’s because you’re a clever and insightful fellow who knows how much your boss is worried and what he worries about.”
“Yes, I do,” Fontein said, and leaned slightly forward. “And because I know, I’ve been trying very hard not to let the suspicions I know you have push me into reading something that isn’t there into her actions.”
“And?” Saint-Just prompted when he paused.
“And I just don’t know.” Fontein pursed his lips, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. It was Saint-Just’s turn to incline his head, silently commanding him to explain, and the citizen general sighed.
“I’ve sat in on almost all of her strategy discussions at the Octagon, and the few I wasn’t physically present for, I listened to on chip. I know the woman is a fiendishly good actress who can scheme and dissemble with the best. God knows I won’t for
get anytime soon how she out-foxed me before the Leveler business! But for all that, I think her concerns over the possibility of new Manty weapons are genuine, Oscar. She’s been too consistent in the arguments she’s made for those concerns to be feigned.” He shook his head. “She’s worried about moving so aggressively onto the offensive. A lot more worried, I think, than she lets herself appear at Committee meetings, where she knows she has to project a confident front. And,” he added unhappily, “I think that because she’s really worried, she’s also very, very pissed off with you for pushing her so hard against her own better judgment.”
“Um.” Saint-Just rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Erasmus Fontein was, with the possible exception of Eloise Pritchart, the most insightful of StateSec’s commissioners. He didn’t look it, which was one of the more potent weapons in his arsenal, but he had a cold, keenly logical mind and, in his own way, he was just as merciless as Oscar Saint-Just. More than that, he’d been Esther McQueen’s watchdog for the better part of eight years. She’d fooled him once, but he knew her moves better than anyone else… and he was a hard man for the same person to fool twice. Which meant Saint-Just had to listen to anything he had to say. But even so…
“Just because she’s genuinely concerned doesn’t mean she’s right,” he said testily, and Fontein very carefully didn’t allow his surprise at his superior’s acid tone to show.
It was very unlike Saint-Just to reveal that sort of irritation, and the citizen general felt a sudden chill. One thing which made Saint-Just so effective was his ability to think coldly and dispassionately about a problem. If personal anger was beginning to corrode that dispassion in Esther McQueen’s case, her time could be far shorter than she guessed. Worse, Fontein wasn’t at all sure he was prepared to dismiss her concerns, whatever Saint-Just thought. He’d had too many opportunities to see her in action, knew how tough minded she was. And, he admitted, had seen her physical and moral courage much too close-up for comfort during the Leveler revolt. He might not trust her, and he certainly didn’t like her, but he did respect her. And if there was any basis to her fears, then however rosy things looked at this moment, the People’s Republic might find in the next few months that it needed her worse than ever.