Vicky Peterwald: Target

by Mike Shepherd

  Clearly dismissed, and not at all happy for all the honors conferred, still, in the face of a Grand Duchess’s demands, the captain collected his command and marched them back the way they had come.

  “Is that a shiner?” the admiral asked Captain Morgan.

  “It might be, sir,” the Marine reported. “I felt constrained not to do the palace guards any permanent harm, so I was not at my best in either delaying him or defending myself. Did I make an error in judgment, sir?”

  “No more than you usually do, Captain. Go see that your eye is looked at. You will, no doubt, make an even more piratical escort for Her Grace this evening.”

  “No doubt, sir.”

  The handsome young captain dismissed himself. Vicky and the admiral continued their meandering among the trees and hedges. “The work of redeploying our headquarters’ units to your wing of the palace is going very quickly. Amazingly fast, if I do say so. You have more pull here than you realize.”

  “I have as much pull as I can pull off,” Vicky said, sourly. “I wouldn’t have had any pull at all with that guard captain if he’d found us in the middle of . . . things,” Vicky said, catching herself from saying the truth.

  Not being able to say the truth, or speak my mind sucks bilgewater, she thought, quoting from Admiral Krätz. For a dead man, he was very alive in the back of her mind.

  How long will I carry his ghost around with me?

  “My wife has arranged with her modiste to have your new uniform ready for tonight’s dinner. I’m looking forward to seeing you in it,” the admiral admitted.

  “I will try to wear it proudly.”

  “I’m confident that you will, Lieutenant. By the way, I’m putting you in for promotion to lieutenant commander.”

  “I really don’t think I’ve earned it yet. Certainly not as much as, say, Kris Longknife has earned it.”

  “She earned it her way. You earned it your way. Greenfeld is not a Longknife province.”

  “It certainly is not, sir. Certainly not!”

  They walked on in silence for several more minutes. Vicky found herself debating whether or not she might pose a question directly to the admiral. Do you consider me one of those women of the palace? If I get Captain Morgan to fall in my bed, will you ship him out tomorrow?

  Vicky wanted to ask the question, but she couldn’t give voice to it. She was afraid that even posing it might get her captain his marching orders.

  She walked alone, beside the admiral, in comfortable silence. Somewhere birds chirped. A peacock called, and another answered. Really, these gardens could be quite pleasant when you weren’t planning political skullduggery or dodging attempted murder.

  “Well, we’re finished here. Try to make it back to your quarters without having to dodge another assassin, Commander,” he said, raising his voice so the nearest Marine officer could hear him. “Escort the Grand Duchess back to her quarters.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the man said, saluting.

  And to Vicky’s great surprise, she did make it safely back to her rooms with neither noise, commotion, nor deaths in her wake.

  CHAPTER 26

  CAPTAIN Morgan presented himself that evening with a left eye that was a glorious shiner. It kind of balanced the slash on his right cheek.

  “Now you most certainly do look like a pirate,” Vicky said.

  “Yep, it scared away all the girls. Looks like I’m left with just us uniform types, and may I say, that is some uniform you’re wearing.”

  “Yes, you may,” Vicky said, and did a pirouette, feeling like she was seven or eight again. The white dress fell to the floor, but as she twirled, it swirled out around her legs. The blue dinner jacket with shoulder boards showing the two modest stripes of a Navy full lieutenant was held in place by the same two gold buttons that held the captain’s red dinner jacket, though hers had anchors and his had a globe and anchor.

  On Vicky, the coat held her endowments in place and presented them quite properly. The strapless bodice made allowances for a neckline that was low by the classical style but positively suffocating by the present fashion of the court.

  The ladies-in-waiting had been positively shocked by it all. Fortunately, Kit and Kat already had Vicky in uniform when they arrived. And the two assassins had no trouble ushering the “ladies” out as quickly as they came in.

  On the captain’s elbow, Vicky made it safely to the banquet hall. Again, she found herself seated well away from the head table and with her back to the wall.

  She also found herself with time enough to reflect on what she’d seen in the kitchen during her visit that morning.

  “There were strangers in the kitchen,” she told Captain Morgan.

  “How could you tell?”

  “The chefs were in culinary whites. These were not.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you think they were there to tamper with the food?” he whispered.

  Vicky raised an agreeing eyebrow.

  The captain sighed. “And I missed breakfast and lunch again today.”

  “I actually was looking forward to a decent meal myself,” Vicky admitted.

  Vicky passed on the hors d’oeuvres. The captain took several, but none of those offered to him, only the ones in the center of the plate.

  The soup was a special Mexican Wedding Soup. Vicky looked at the bowl in front of her and shook her head. Captain Morgan reached for it, and the bowl in front of the woman next to him . . . and switched them.

  “Well I never,” said the middle-aged wife of the man sitting next to her.

  “I wouldn’t touch that soup,” Vicky offered. “It was meant for me.”

  The woman reached for her soup spoon, held it uncertainly for a moment, then her husband removed it from her hand and placed it in the soup. Handle and all, it sank from view.

  So I’m not the only one who wonders about what is set before me, Vicky thought, then, with a smile, she ladled in a spoon of soup. It really was delicious.

  She finished it all quickly.

  The fish was a white fish, one of the local stocks that had proven delicious to the arriving humans and managed to compete with imported stocks.

  Tonight, it looked to have been cooked with chiles.

  Vicky looked around the table, then politely asked the young dandy to her left if she might trade with his girlfriend. The trade was swiftly made with no negative comments.

  The minor bureaucrat must have held high hopes for this particular young woman. He shared his own fish with her as she chose to ignore her own hand-me-down plate.

  There were now plenty of whispered side conversations around the table, but no one left or said anything against the Grand Duchess’s clear evidence of paranoia.

  And no one offered to swap their own plate and eat from the one that Vicky declined.

  Thus it went until the main course was served. The place of honor was held by a spicy tamale smothered in cheese and chili peppers, surrounded with rice and beans.

  “You could hide just about any poison you want with those spices,” Captain Morgan said, softly, but in a voice that carried around the table.

  “All too true,” Vicky agreed.

  “Do you think someone would be willing to poison an entire table?” the Marine asked Vicky.

  “They must certainly be getting tired of my dodging their bullets. What would this be, the fifth assassination attempt in only two days?”

  You could have heard a pin drop around the table as couples looked at each other and the Grand Duchess.

  Vicky did not look around the table. She also didn’t bother to think of whom she might trade her main course with. Instead, she gently shoved her plate away.

  At her elbow, the captain did the same.

  Slowly, all the plates found their way toward the center of the table.

  “I’m not hungry, love,” one of the half-dressed young women said to her partner.

  “Apparently no one is, my dear,” he observed for all of them.

  One o
f the middle-aged bureaucrats reached for his napkin and used it to lift his tamale from his plate and pocketed it. “I have a friend who runs a lab, Your Grace. By noon tomorrow, I’ll be able to tell you what was in this food, right down to the molecular level. If it was safe, I will tell you. If not, I should be able to tell you exactly why it wasn’t.”

  “Do you really want to get you and your lovely wife involved with my problems?” Vicky asked.

  The man exchanged glances with his wife, then, wordlessly, removed the tamale from his coat pocket and returned it to his plate.

  “Sorry, Your Grace.”

  “No apology needed, good sir. I wouldn’t wish my present circumstances on anyone.”

  The diners sat through the rest of the meal’s courses without taking a bite.

  As soon as dinner finished, the music began. When the Emperor led his bride to the floor, Vicky was up immediately. The captain did not miss his cue but led her quickly to the floor, and they joined the Imperial couple.

  Not far behind them was the rest of their table. They might be hungry and too cowed to run a full lab test, but they were quite willing to show their support for the Grand Duchess on the dance floor.

  Confronted by this innovation, the dance floor filled well before the first waltz was half-done.

  During the next dance, the Emperor and Empress danced close to the Navy and Marine couple. “That is quite an interesting ensemble,” the Empress allowed.

  “It is to become the new formal-dinner-dress uniform for Navy women,” Vicky offered.

  “It certainly looks nice,” the Emperor said.

  “I didn’t know there were that many women in the Navy that you’d need formal dress,” the Empress said, cutting in on her husband’s compliment.

  “Oh, yes, and likely to be more if the present emergencies continue.”

  “Minor problems,” the Empress said.

  “Certainly,” the Emperor agreed.

  “Most definitely,” Vicky chimed in.

  “In a pig’s eye,” Captain Morgan whispered in Vicky’s ear.

  The Imperial couple danced away from them. Only when they were well gone did Vicky allow herself a smile. “So true, Captain. So painfully true.”

  They stayed on the floor for the next half hour. This time, no young man tried to cut in on the Grand Duchess and her Marine. Of course, that did not stop the admiral from trading partners for a waltz.

  “You look rather spectacular this evening, young lady, if a bit hungry.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, sir, and yes, the captain and I did not get to enjoy the fine meal the rest of you did.”

  “So I noticed. Your good captain knows of a fine place to eat in town. Quiet, out of the way. Well secured by the Shore Patrol. If he invites you to run away with him to a decent and safe meal, you certainly have my leave to go. And I hope you two kids enjoy yourself.”

  Which left Vicky wondering just how much the admiral meant for them to enjoy themselves?

  After two more dances, Captain Morgan allowed that they deserved a walk on the veranda to cool off and catch their breath.

  Vicky was grateful for the break. Her shoes were killing her. Out on the cool stones, she found a bench and settled down on it. It was so much more comfortable sitting without the hoopskirts. It was also nice to have the dress between her bottom and the cold stone. With a sigh, she slipped out of her shoes.

  Her Marine went to his knees and gently began to rub her tired feet.

  She found herself feeling his caring massage in places that had nothing to do with her toes.

  “I’ll give you a half hour to stop that,” she said sternly.

  “A half hour I would gladly do, but I’m a growing boy who’s starving.”

  “You have any suggestions?” Vicky asked, not yet ready to give away what the admiral had told her.

  “Well, there’s this wonderful little diner in town. The nicest place you’d ever want to put a feed bag on. They serve the most delicious homemade burgers. They’re so good, I swear, the cows are waiting in line out back to be made into burgers. They must be, or they’d never get such fresh meat.”

  “You are disgusting.” Vicky laughed. “Who wants to think about where their meat comes from?”

  “Maybe some kid who spent a summer or two on a cattle ranch. Kind of changes your perspective on your chow.”

  “Well, if you’ll put my shoes back on my swollen feet, I’ll let you lead me astray. Assuming we can slip past all the security this place must have.”

  “Oh, I’m quite good at slipping past this place’s half-asleep dragons, and your lovely feet are not swollen. They are quite dainty,” he said, slipping her feet back into the torture devices style demanded.

  And so they went, hand in hand, down a side staircase and into the basement of the palace. At the end of one corridor, a Marine corporal was lodged in a tiny room. At his elbow on the wall was a box full of keys.

  “The usual hot rig, Captain?” he said.

  “No, Corporal, we’ll skip the red ’vette tonight for something more sedate. Say a four-door sedan.”

  The corporal’s surprise was registered with two raised eyebrows. He eyed Vicky. “Who’s the broad, sir?” he whispered.

  “Not a broad, Corporal, but a Navy officer sporting the new dinner uniform. Oh, and someone you never saw.”

  The corporal took a second look, then snapped to attention. “Yes, Captain, Your Grace, I never saw what I’m seeing just now, sir.”

  “Very good, Corporal,” Captain Morgan said, signing for a car and taking the keys. “It’s clean. No bugs?” he asked.

  “I saw to it, myself, sir,” the young man said, swallowing hard. “Clean as a whistle.”

  “That poor corporal,” Vicky laughed, as they hurried toward the motor pool.

  “He’s a good man. One of the kids that were around when I got my scar. We can trust him far beyond the call of duty.”

  “So, you borrow cars often,” Vicky said, gathering up her skirt and letting the gallant captain help her into the four-door sedan that looked very much like any family car. Parked beside it was a little red thing that might have started life as a hot racing car.

  The captain eyed the hot red car longingly but for only a second.

  “From time to time,” the captain admitted vaguely. “Usually, I take something faster and flashier,” he said, settling into the driver’s seat. He expertly adjusted the wheel and mirrors to his need. The motor came to life, and they were backing out of the parking spot.

  Well, I’m no virgin. Do I really want to have to waste time tonight teaching a guy the basics? Who knows, maybe he can teach me a few things.

  And with that happy thought, Vicky let down the window and enjoyed the feel of the wind in her hair. No doubt, Kat would complain as she worked the rat’s nest out of it tonight, but Vicky would worry about that later.

  At the gate, they had to pause for a moment. The Imperial Guard on duty recognized the captain and waved him through with a grin, then his eyes got wide as he spotted who was in the passenger seat.

  If the Imperial intended to stop them, it was too late; Captain Morgan gunned the engine, and they were gone.

  CHAPTER 27

  IT felt strange to be free of the palace. As they sped down the road, Vicky felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from her, but she also felt something else. Something vague and undefined. Had she gotten so used to being under a threat of death that she couldn’t feel anything once it was gone?

  She shivered at the thought.

  “You cold?” the captain asked.

  “No. No, I’m not cold. Just feeling stuff I don’t know how to define,” Vicky admitted.

  “You’re safe with me,” he said.

  “I feel safe. I also feel off the map. In a strange land. Could there be dragons around the next bend?”

  “Hey, gal. Don’t worry. We’re headed for Navy territory. The safest place on Greenfeld. And besides, I’m a professional dragon slay
er.”

  “You certainly look the part,” Vicky admitted. She let her hand feel the air out the window. “So, there is someplace in this town the Navy says is safe.”

  “Certified and patrolled,” her gallant said.

  They kept the banter light for the rest of the drive, even when they passed a Shore Patrol rig with two alert SPs in it.

  As promised, there was an old-fashioned diner at the end of the drive. It was covered in a silver metal and gleamed in the streetlights. Vicky shed her jacket as the captain helped her out of the car, settling for looking just overdressed, but not in uniform. Inside, the captain pointed Vicky toward a booth in the back, and they settled into it, Vicky with her back to the door and invisible to the customers.

  The captain looked alert, time and again letting his eyes rove from their usual focus on Vicky’s face to take in an opening door or a sliding chair.

  A middle-aged waitress with a friendly face arrived at their table before Vicky had time to glance at the menu. “You want the usual, Billy?” she asked the captain.

  “What’s the usual?” Vicky asked.

  The captain opened his mouth, but the waitress beat him to it. “A double burger, medium rare, fresh-cut onions, lettuce, and tomatoes with our cook’s special sauce, a mound of fries and a homemade chocolate shake with three scoops of chocolate and a double helping of syrup.”

  “Guilty as charged,” the Marine admitted.

  “Make it two,” Vicky said. “I’m starving.”

  “Hey, Billy, this one’s different from those other gals you bring here. She’s got an appetite, this one does, and not afraid to use it.” The waitress raised an eyebrow. “This one might be a keeper.”

  “Elke, you’re giving away state secrets again.”

  “Okay,” the waitress said, turning away, but talking as she sauntered to the kitchen window, “it may be none of my business, but I’m just saying, this one looks like a good simple gal compared to those hussies you bring in.”

  Captain Morgan chuckled. “My sins do find me out.”