With the Lightnings

by David Drake

  Barnes knocked the man down.

  In a furious tone that shocked Adele even more than the blow, Woetjans shouted, “Then I’ll answer to him, won’t I, Blessing? Your job’s to carry out the orders I give you!”

  Others in the docking bay watched the unexpected tableau, but no one moved to intervene. Dasi walked over to the hatch controls. “Yeah,” he said. “And if you think you got problems with what just happened, Blessing, you better pray Mr. Leary don’t learn you tried to give the lady a hard time. They’ll probably make somebody else captain of the Princess Cecile, but until they do you’ll think you died and went to Hell.”

  The hatch opened. It was the inner door of a large airlock holding a cutter. Woetjans gestured Adele through ahead of her.

  Adele didn’t speak. There was nothing more to say; and anyway, her throat was too choked by emotion.

  * * *

  Captain Kryshevski was an hour later leaving his office than he’d thought even remotely possible. Mistress O’Sullivan’s establishment would be open till dawn, but the chances of getting a taxi at the back of the Elector’s Palace weren’t good.

  Kryshevski could have a naval vehicle take him, but that would be impolitic at best. He might well meet other officers at the tables, but he’d be a fool to put his activities on record with those who weren’t themselves implicated.

  Nothing illegal about gambling, of course. Nothing illegal about gambling for very high stakes. But questions might be asked, and Captain Kryshevski didn’t have a wealthy family to provide answers.

  He returned the guards’ salute and stepped into the street. To his relief, there was a jitney waiting with its diesel ticking over. The driver, an older man, hopped down from his seat and opened the door to the rear compartment. He looked to be a scoundrel, but he bowed and said, “Where to, master?” in a polite tone.

  Kryshevski wasn’t about to argue with what seemed better luck than he had any right to. Maybe it was an omen of the night’s play. He got in and said quietly so that the guards wouldn’t hear, “Stoneyard Street, beside the entrance to the gardens. You know where that is?”

  “I sure do, master,” the driver said. He closed the compartment and boarded again. The light vehicle rocked with his weight over the single front wheel.

  The jitney was already pointed in the correct direction. They started, and the rhythm of the wheels on the hard pavers began to soothe Kryshevski’s irritation at the problem that had held him in the office. It was impossible to find enough guard detachments from a squadron that hadn’t been intended as an occupation force.

  The jitney stopped. A middle-sized man opened the compartment door. Kryshevski fumbled for the latches of his briefcase, cursing himself for not carrying the pistol in a more accessible location. He relaxed slightly when he realized the man wore a Cinnabar naval uniform.

  “This taxi’s taken!” Kryshevski said.

  “It’s not exactly a taxi, Captain,” the man said, “but I’d be more than happy to carry you to your destination.”

  The driver leaned over so that Kryshevski could see him through the open door. “I knew you’d want me to help the captain, Master Daniel,” he said in what Kryshevski now recognized as a Cinnabar accent.

  “You were quite right, Hogg,” said the man. He stepped up into the compartment.

  Kryshevski began to laugh. “Caught!” he said. “Caught for fair, by God! You’re Lieutenant Leary and I’ve been dodging you all week!”

  Daniel closed the door. Hogg drove off again, though very slowly. “If you have, sir,” Daniel said, “I’m sure it’s because you didn’t know what I wanted to see you about.”

  Hogg had taught him early that the successful hunter didn’t tramp through the forest looking for prey: he found a game trail and waited for his victim to walk down it for the last time.

  Hogg had also taught him that a wire-loop snare was just as effective as a bullet and the hunter could sleep longer besides. Garroting the squadron’s personnel officer wouldn’t advance Daniel’s case, but a time or two during the past frustrating week he’d imagined Captain Kryshevski with a black face and protruding tongue.

  “Well, I’d like for that to be true, boy,” Kryshevski said. He was handling the business like a gentleman of breeding rather than snarling in fury at the way he’d been trapped. “I guess I know now how you were able to give the Alliance such fits.”

  He chuckled again, shaking his head. His face sobered and he went on, “The Princess Cecile’ll put a small fortune in your prize account when the Navy Board buys her into service, as I’m sure they will; but you won’t be breveted ‘commanding’ to take her back to Cinnabar. That’ll go to a more senior lieutenant. And let’s face it, boy, to a lieutenant who’s got more interest than you do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel said. “I know that, and I wouldn’t waste your time discussing the matter.”

  Interest was a reality of all walks of life, not just the RCN. You helped those who could help you. To object would be as silly as objecting to sex or to the necessity of breathing.

  That didn’t mean that senior officers found promotion opportunities for incompetents: no sane admiral wanted to be saddled with a band of protégés who were unable to carry out his orders effectively. It did mean that of two qualified persons, the one whose connections could most benefit the officer making the decision would get the promotion.

  Daniel couldn’t imagine living under a system in which the person making the decision didn’t feel personally responsible for his choice. He wouldn’t want to live in a world without interest. Unfortunately, until Daniel got enough reputation that some senior officer took him under a wing despite the possibility of Speaker Leary’s wrath, he was very much without interest himself.

  “I just wanted to see that the paperwork for my crew was processed correctly for distribution of the prize money,” he said. “In particular I’d like to check on my first officer, Ms. Mundy, whom I breveted lieutenant from her former rank.”

  “You what?” said Kryshevski, dumbfounded.

  “It’s unusual for a junior lieutenant to grant brevet rank, I know,” Daniel said calmly. “But as you’re aware the Kostroma mission was an admiral’s slot, and I was the senior officer surviving at the time I granted the commission. That Lieutenant Mundy was critical to the success of the operation is of course obvious after the fact.”

  “But good God, boy!” the captain said. “You can’t brevet a civilian.”

  “Ms. Mundy had the rank of sergeant in the Officer Training Corps of her school,” Daniel said. He had no idea of whether or not that was true, but it was likely enough for a Mundy of Chatsworth. “I think under the circumstances that should cover the legalities.”

  Kryshevski looked at him sharply. “‘Under the circumstances,’” he repeated. “The circumstances being that you won’t make a fuss about command of the Princess Cecile going to somebody else. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t want to put it that way, sir,” said Daniel. “But you can assure Admiral Ingreit that I have no intention of objecting to his choice of officers for any ship under his command. The Princess Cecile included, of course.”

  “You are a smart little bugger, aren’t you?” Kryshevski said. There was admiration in his tone. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t wonder that Speaker Leary’s son knows that politics is the art of the possible.”

  Daniel smiled without real humor. “The driver is my old servant,” he said. “He taught me to play cards, among other things. And he certainly taught me not to overplay my hand.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Kryshevski said. “Between us, I don’t think your friend needs to worry about her share. They’ll rescind the grant on Cinnabar, but it’ll be valid for the period in question.”

  He sighed. “There’s a school of thought,” he went on, looking toward the compartment’s blank front panel, “that says an officer clever enough to capture a corvette is likely clever enough to command her. Especi
ally when he’s already been clever enough to destroy an Alliance cruiser.”

  “The Bremse was Ms. Mundy’s doing, not mine,” Daniel said quietly. “I was very lucky to have her under my command.”

  Kryshevski shook his head. “Speaker Leary’s son and a Mundy of Chatsworth,” he said. “He’ll have kittens when he finds out, won’t he?”

  “I don’t see my father very often these days, sir,” Daniel said in what was for him a cold tone. “I don’t think he has much opinion on naval matters, and my relations with Ms. Mundy are entirely a naval matter.”

  The jitney stopped. Hogg opened the door on Kryshevski’s side.

  Kryshevski paused. “It wouldn’t be to your advantage if word that you met me got out,” he said.

  “I’m aware of that, sir,” Daniel said. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that occurring.”

  Kryshevski stepped down. Hogg bowed to him and said, “There’s some loose bricks on the right in the ceiling of the passageway to Ms. O’Sullivan’s. You’d be wiser to chance the puddle on the left instead of getting brained trying to arrive with dry shoes.”

  Kryshevski handed Hogg a tip that made his eyebrows lift with pleasure. He was laughing as he entered the gateway.

  * * *

  When the footsteps didn’t stop at the first door beyond the head of the stairs, Adele realized the visitor was coming for her. The man in the second room down the hallway worked nights, and the woman in the remaining room would only be returning at this hour if she had a client. The person coming was alone.

  Adele took out her pistol and laid it on the desk at which she sat facing the door.

  The knock was discreet. “Yes?” Adele said without getting up.

  “My name is Sand, mistress,” replied the voice of a woman with a cultured Cinnabar accent. “I’d be grateful for a few minutes of your time.”

  Adele considered the situation. She’d returned to the apartment she’d lived in before the coup because she had nowhere else to go. She still had nowhere to go.

  “Come in,” Adele said. She’d known someone would come. She’d expected more than one person, but she hadn’t expected them quite so soon. “The door isn’t locked.”

  The door opened. Sand was about sixty years old. She wore a long cloak and shoes that seemed unobtrusive unless you realized what they must have cost. She was heavy, though not quite what even Adele’s lack of charity would call fat.

  “I appreciate your seeing me,” Sand said, sounding sincere. “I regret the hour, but I came as soon as I could.”

  “You came from Elphinstone,” Adele said. Her lips smiled. “Let me rephrase that: Elphinstone works for you.”

  She didn’t suggest her visitor sit down. The room’s only chair was the one in which Adele herself sat anyway.

  Sand laughed and seated herself on the edge of the low bed. “Commander Elphinstone most certainly does not work for me,” she said. “He’s a naval officer. Wonderful fellows in their place, naval officers. Rock-solid, straightforward people, crucial to the survival of the Republic. Unfortunately …”

  She paused to throw back the wing of her cloak. The price of the suit she wore beneath it would have paid Adele’s apartment rent for a year. Sand brought an ivory snuffbox out of an inside pocket, offered it to Adele, and put a pinch in the hollow of her left thumb.

  “The trouble with naval officers,” Sand continued, “is their confidence that the only way to an objective is through the direct application of force. Whereas civilians like you and me know—”

  She snorted, pinching shut the opposite nostril, then sneezed violently. “Nothing like it to keep your head clear,” she said in satisfaction.

  Sand met Adele’s eyes squarely. “Sometimes all you get from driving head-first into a situation is a headache, Ms. Mundy,” she said. “Which is what that fool Elphinstone has caused for me. I’m hoping that you’ll not let that prevent you from acting to your advantage and to that of the Republic.”

  “I’ll give you the same answer I did him,” Adele said coldly. She felt silly to have the gun in plain sight, though it would be worse at this point to pocket it again. Sand didn’t use force, and she was much more dangerous than those who did.

  “If I asked the same question, I’m quite sure you would,” Sand said. “And if you think I would ask the same question then I’ve misjudged your abilities of analysis.”

  Adele laughed and put the pistol away: an apology for being foolish, understood and accepted by Sand’s nod of approval.

  “It’s obviously to my benefit to help you,” Adele said. “I’ll do so if I’m able to with honor. But you should be aware that my honor is engaged in this matter.”

  “Oh, no one has designs on your honor,” Sand said good-humoredly. “And there’s plenty of honor to go around in a victory as great as this one. Admiral Ingreit will get the formal thanks of the Senate for capturing Kostroma, and as for Lieutenant Daniel Leary, well, he’ll be a nine-days’ wonder, won’t he? The last thing a wise senior officer would do is to seem to be blackening the name of the hero of so brilliant an exploit.”

  “Some people might not see it that way,” Adele said.

  Sand snorted. “Some people are fools,” she said.

  Her face, never particularly attractive, was suddenly that of a bulldog preparing to leap. “Let me assure you, mistress, that Admiral Ingreit is capable of taking good advice if it’s put in a form he can understand. My delay in visiting you was because I thought it desirable to discuss matters with the admiral first.”

  Adele laughed. “I’d offer you a drink,” she said, “but I don’t have anything on hand. I don’t have very much at all, to be honest, including the next week’s rent.”

  Sand nodded without comment. “Have you seen Lieutenant Leary recently?” she asked.

  Adele shook her head. “Not since shortly after the fleet arrived,” she said. “I went to the command node to help with integration, and Daniel had his own duties. I believe he’s still aboard the ship we captured, but I didn’t care to bother him after I left the battleship.”

  She half-smiled. “I was afraid I might be contagious, you see.”

  Sand nodded again. She opened her belt purse and took from it a business card.

  “I believe that a person with your natural abilities could be of enormous benefit to the Republic,” she said. “What some would think of as—please forgive me—your disabilities are in fact extremely good cover for a person of undoubted loyalty to Cinnabar.”

  Adele’s smile was more wry than bitter. “I don’t think it would be difficult,” she said, “to find those who doubt my loyalty.”

  Sand stood to place the business card on the desk. “I believe we’ve already discussed how easy it is to find fools, mistress,” she said. “I try very hard not to be one of their number.”

  The front of the card read simply BERNIS SAND. Adele turned the card over and squeezed the diagonally opposite corners. A twelve-digit number appeared on the blank surface, then vanished when she released the pressure.

  “When you’re next on Cinnabar you might call there,” Sand said. She stood and carefully returned the snuffbox to its pocket.

  “Thank you for the suggestion, mistress,” Adele said, “but I don’t expect to be on Cinnabar in the foreseeable future. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll return to Cinnabar until I can do so aboard a naval vessel commanded by Mr. Leary.”

  She cleared her throat. She was profoundly embarrassed at what she was doing. The Mundys of Chatsworth were not a house that interested itself in trade, so it was bad enough to find herself bargaining. Further, she was boasting by putting a high price on herself when she was three florins from starvation; and she didn’t know enough about the navy to be sure Sand could pay that price even if she chose to.

  Adele smiled. Not for the first time she realized that some people would do more for others than they would do for themselves. That was perhaps as good a definition of friendship as one could find; and a def
inition of patriotism as well.

  Sand laughed. “Goodness, you do have a low opinion of the way the navy’s run,” she said in a plummy voice. “Well, since you met Elphinstone this afternoon I can see why you would. I assure you that Admiral Ingreit is too sophisticated to be taken in by the rumors about Daniel Leary being on the outs with his father.”

  Adele blinked. The words were quite clear, not the jargon that had frequently confused her when she was around the sailors. But they made as little sense as, “You can breathe chlorine now.”

  “Yes, a politician as clever as Corder Leary knows how important the health of the navy is to the Republic,” Sand continued. “And what better way to gauge that than through his own son? Especially if the boy sees all parts of the service that would have been hidden from a top-rank noble. The admiral and I were discussing that very subject at dinner tonight.”

  “Ah,” said Adele. “I do see.”

  She stood and sidled out from behind the desk. “And I see that I owe you an apology, mistress.”

  She offered her hand. Sand shook it firmly and said, “No apology required, Ms. Mundy. You hadn’t known me long enough for accurate analysis. I have studied you, however. I trust communication will be easier in the future.”

  Sand closed her cloak about her. “Good night, then, mistress,” she said.

  Adele cleared her throat again. “I think he’s the sort of officer the RCN needs,” she said. She noted with amusement that she’d used the sailor’s term for the organization rather than calling it “the navy” as a civilian would have done. “That the Republic needs.”

  Sand looked at her. “As do I, Ms. Mundy,” she said. “Otherwise our discussion tonight would have turned in different directions.”

  She closed the door behind her with a slow, firm pressure till it latched. The warped panel would have sprung open if Sand had slammed it.

  * * *

  Adele walked toward the harbor through bright sunlight. When Woetjans and Barnes brought her the invitation to board the Princess Cecile in orbit, they’d expected her to fly to the cutter in their airboat. She let them take most of her limited possessions, but not the personal data unit on her thigh; nor the pistol; nor herself.