Lt. Leary, Commanding

by David Drake

  Daniel chuckled. “Yes, all right, Hogg,” he said. “Commodore Pettin ordered me to make a survey of constructions on South Land. This hole appears to be one of the more recent constructions … and I wouldn’t want the commodore to think I’d disobeyed his orders.”

  *

  Adele worked at the seven separate screens on her display while Tovera stood behind her chair, facing toward the bridge proper. The servant wore, unusually for her, an RCN commo helmet. She was echoing Adele’s display on the visor.

  “By God!” Lt. Mon said. He slammed his fist on the command console and stood. “By God, I won’t have them play games with the RCN! Officer Mundy, a word with you!”

  Adele locked her display and set her wands on the flat surface. She rotated her seat to face Mon, but she was rubbing her eyes instead of meeting his furious gaze.

  “Koop and Lamsoe just called in from South Land,” Mon said. “They’ve reached the site and done everything but plow the ground up. Captain Leary isn’t there, there’s no sign that he ever was, and I can’t get through to the Captal da Lund for an explanation! A message says he’s not taking calls!”

  A part of Adele wondered idly whether that was the sort of information that all RCN commanders thought they had to tell their signals officers. Whose console did Mon think the calls were routed through?

  Aloud she said, “Yes, I’m sorry, Mon, I should’ve kept you better informed. I’ve been busy.”

  She gestured toward the command console. “Sit down again and I’ll explain what’s been going on.”

  Mon’s face darkened for a moment; Adele realized that her brusqueness had tripped Mon’s little-man belligerence. He nodded, remembering her civilian background, and sat down obediently.

  “Sorry,” Adele muttered, irritated with herself. If she’d been a man instead of a slender woman whose physical presence threatened no one, her error might have precipitated a scene in the current charged atmosphere.

  She faced around and unlocked the display, saying, “No one’s come out of the Captal’s compound since his driver and aircar returned late yesterday evening.”

  Her wand highlighted a movement log, culled from the compound’s own sensors.

  “The car came back?” Mon said. “By—” He caught himself. “Go ahead, Officer Mundy,” he said with the controlled tension of a gymnast balancing.

  “Yes,” said Adele, throwing up time-slugged imagery of the car landing in the courtyard. “And if you’ll look here—”

  She split the display to show two versions of the vehicle’s left quarter panel recorded when it left the compound and on its return. The quality wasn’t good enough to show detail, but the fist-sized dents in the latter image were sufficiently clear.

  “It appears that shots hit the car between the time it left and when it came back,” Adele said. “That implies that at least one member of the expedition was alive after Dorotige left them.”

  “Can you get me through to the Captal da Lund?” Mon said in a cold voice. “I’d like to discuss the matter with him.”

  For all the lieutenant’s bubbling temper, he didn’t bluster when there was a serious task in front of him. That was probably why Daniel liked having Mon as a subordinate.

  “I can get you through his blocking program,” Adele said. “I don’t recommend that, however, since it would alert him to how open his systems are to intrusion. I have full access to his security system, for example. That’s where this imagery is coming from.”

  Mon’s mouth opened, then closed. “Christ,” he said in a wondering voice, “you are a wizard, just like they told me after I got out of a cell on Kostroma. Do you have a plan?”

  “I’m working toward one,” Adele said carefully. Put as baldly as Mon had, she realized that she should’ve been discussing matters with the acting captain at every step of the way. “I have some ideas.”

  Mon touched the intercom key. When the attention call sounded, he said, “Officers to the bridge ASAP. Out.”

  Mon’s words reached Adele through the helmet, through the air directly from his lips, and in a whispering echo from the ceiling speakers down the corridor. He gave her a smile as tight and sharp as the knots spun into a length of barbed wire.

  “I’m supposed to handle your communications,” Adele said apologetically. “I haven’t been communicating very well.”

  “I’m more interested in people doing their jobs,” Mon said, “than in them telling me about it. And right now I’m damned sure that Captain Leary feels the same way.”

  Woetjans and Taley dropped through the dorsal hatch, reaching the bridge a half step before Betts arrived from his sleeping compartment in the warrant officers’ quarters. Pasternak had been in the Battle Direction Center for some reason. He came running down the corridor, the crash of his boots warning curious crewmen out of his path.

  “Go ahead, Officer Mundy,” Mon said. Betts sat at his console where he could import imagery from Adele’s display, but the other officers would have to make do with their helmet visors.

  “The Captal’s dwelling is under Berengian exterritorial jurisdiction,” Adele said, “just as the Cinnabar Commission is legally Cinnabar territory. That means neither the Sexburgan local government nor Admiral Torgis can legally demand access to the Captal’s compound. Furthermore, the Captal is far too important a person on Sexburga for the authorities to be willing to ignore the legalities.”

  Tovera had gathered much of the background on her own, even before Daniel’s disappearance created a need for it. She apparently liked to know the power structures wherever she was.

  “I’m willing to ignore legalities,” Mon said without raising his voice. He was tapping the index and middle fingers of his right hand into the opposite palm with the steady deliberation of a bell-ringer. “I’m willing to hover the Princess Cecile on top of the damned compound and let the exhaust burn it out if that’s the best way to get the captain back.”

  “Damn right,” Woetjans said.

  An instant later all the other officers nodded. They must know as surely as Adele did that the Navy Office would have to treat any such overt violation as piracy, to be punished by the consequent hanging of the officers and crew of the offending vessel.

  “That would not be helpful,” Adele said in a tone of cold disgust. It wouldn’t necessarily be possible, either: the Captal had prepared defenses to meet just such an attack. Saying as much would only inflame the officers around her into an attitude of heroic self-sacrifice. “We need information which we won’t be able to get from a pile of slag and ashes. I—”

  The code A501 flashed in red at the upper margin of Adele’s display. It wouldn’t echo on the other displays and she’d toggled off the audio cue; no one knew about it but the Signals Officer. A502 would have meant the call was from squadron command; A501 meant—

  Adele locked her display and pointed a wand toward Lt. Mon. “There’s a call to the Princess Cecile from Commodore Pettin’s own console,” she said. She’d lost track of who was on watch; perhaps she herself was. “Shall I take it, or … ?”

  Mon shook his head curtly and keyed his audio. “Acting captain,” he said without inflection. “Go ahead.”

  “This is Commodore Pettin,” the speaker said. Adele might be reading irritation into Pettin’s tone, but the man was certainly not above thundering angrily at any delay in getting the acting captain. Nor was he above regretting a chance to display that righteous indignation. “I haven’t been able to raise your Mr. Leary. Can you tell me what he thinks he’s playing at?”

  “No sir,” Lt. Mon said. His face, always angular, changed shape as the muscles tightened over his jaw and cheekbones. “Captain Leary proceeded to South Land via the civilian transportation which you had arranged for him, sir.”

  RCN communications were normally voice-only to minimize bandwidth. That was fortunate in this case, because Mon wasn’t a good actor. His voice stayed almost flat, but the fury toward the commodore in his expression could not have been
scarcely more obvious.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised to find insolence in Mr. Leary’s subordinates, should I, Mon?” Pettin said. “Well, for now you may tell your captain that the squadron has been fully refitted and will lift in twelve hours, not the thirty-six I previously estimated. If Mr. Leary has not returned by then, the Princess Cecile will lift without him, under your temporary command. Is that understood?”

  “Yessir,” Mon said through clenched teeth. “I understand you very well, Commodore Pettin.”

  “By God,” Pettin snarled, “for half a piastre I’d slap you in custody and put my third lieutenant aboard that grubby little corvette. Half a piastre!”

  The transmission ended in an electronic click rather than the crash that Pettin obviously would have preferred if the technology permitted it. Adele smiled at the thought, then wiped her face blank lest Mon misunderstand her humor.

  “If them buckets lift in twelve hours, they’ll all three of ‘em lose antennas before we make Strymon,” Woetjans said. “They arrived here in crappy shape, and they don’t have the crews to make things right even in the three days Pettin allowed at the start.”

  “He’s playing games,” Taley agreed, looking even more than usually as if she were following a coffin. “I wouldn’t want to be the Winckelmann’s machinist, I can tell you that.”

  “Yeah, but how about us?” Pasternak said. “Can we find the captain in twelve hours? It’s six just to fly to where he was supposed to be, right?”

  “Officer Mundy has a plan to get information from the Captal da Lund,” Mon said, his hands laced together so tightly that the fingertips raised white halos against the tanned backs. “We’re going to do whatever it takes to execute that plan.”

  His face was savage. “Whatever it takes,” he repeated, but his voice had sunk to a growl.

  “All right,” said Adele. Her wands twitched, expanding an image to full-display size. “Here’s a set of the builders’ plans for the Captal’s dwelling. You’ll note …”

  *

  The rattle of pebbles in empty ration cans wasn’t loud thirty feet away from the tent, but it was so different from the wind’s keening overhead that even before Hogg gripped his shoulder Daniel had awakened in a rush. He sat upright and slapped on the commo helmet, saying, “Unit, I’m going to look for an animal with Hogg. Nobody else leave the camp till summoned. Captain out.”

  “Unit, don’t get fucking trigger happy, it’s me and the master out there in the woods!” Hogg rasped. His helmet would continue to broadcast on the unit push because he hadn’t closed the transmission. That was actually a good idea to keep the crew informed of what was going on. It was simply sloppy procedure on Hogg’s part, of course.

  Daniel had slept in his boots, but he paused to slide the closures tight before stepping out of the warmth of the tent behind Hogg. Barnes rose onto one elbow; he’d be outside as soon as Daniel’s eyes were off him, joining his friend Dasi on guard.

  It was the guards, Dasi and Sentino, that Daniel had been warning; the other spacers remained asleep. Spacers on a long voyage learned to sleep through any amount of racket and crowding, unless it was their name or their watch that had been called.

  Daniel dialed his visor’s light enhancement up to daylight normal as he crawled along after Hogg. Sentino squatted near the head of the track, her impeller pointed up at a 45-degree angle to show that it didn’t threaten anybody. She lifted her left index finger to acknowledge Daniel; he nodded as he passed her.

  The creature in the trap ahead of them was screaming. The sound was high-pitched and as loud as a saw cutting stone. It almost completely drowned the rattling of the cans tied to the snare.

  The track curved around a bush whose branches dropped runners to the ground, completely blocking Daniel’s view of the camp—and vice versa. When he was out of Sentino’s sight, he drew his knife.

  Hogg thrust the shovel into the base of a shrub with ghostly white stems, then lifted it with a twist of deceptively strong wrists. He flung the clump out of the way so that Daniel could squat beside him. Nobody whom Hogg had spanked would mistake him for a soft fellow beyond the curve of middle age.

  Hogg had set his double noose snare over the mouth of the hole plugged by the sandstone block. The eighty-pound creature which had tripped the triggers now hung in the air, flailing in the grip of the pair of springy branches Hogg had used to tension the trap.

  It was white and hairless except for bushes of red-gold hair in its armpits. It had four broad, stubby limbs and a neck so thick and powerfully muscled that the nooses which should have choked the creature unconscious by now merely served to suspend it. It gripped the righthand tether with blunt claws, jangling the rattles Hogg had attached to the rig to warn him when he’d made a catch.

  “By God,” Hogg muttered, easing closer and cocking the shovel back for a thrust. Its broad blade would let the creature’s life out faster than an explosive bullet. “That little bastard’s untying the damn knots.”

  “Wait,” said Daniel. He put his hand on Hogg’s right shoulder, emphasizing the warning. “Don’t. We don’t need food.”

  The creature’s screams had turned to mewls as Hogg and Daniel came into sight. Its eyes were large and round, set in circuits of bone. When it closed them in terror, sheets of muscle rather than thin skin covered the orbs.

  The noose gave way: untied from the springy branch, just as Hogg had said. The remaining noose flicked the creature sideways like the popper of a whip. From behind it looked like a grub worm, ugly beyond easy description. Daniel might have underestimated its weight because there was no hair to bulk up its form.

  Hogg swore softly. The creature squirmed both forepaws under the bark cord and tugged outward. Interrogatory chirps were coming from the burrow; Daniel could see fairy lights deep within the ground.

  “Master,” Hogg said, poising the shovel again.

  “No!” said Daniel.

  The tensioned branch sprang back. In a reciprocal motion, the creature leaped for the opening and vanished within as smoothly as water swirling down a hole.

  Hogg was breathing hard. He kept the shovel pointed at the burrow even after the sandstone plug thudded into the opening and was wedged into place with a series of clacks muted by the surrounding bank.

  “Did you see its face?” Hogg said. “When it jumped, it looked at us. Did you see?”

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “I did. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a long way to walk tomorrow.”

  He turned and started back for the tent. He was panting too, though he hadn’t been exerting himself.

  “Christ, master, it looked human,” Hogg said.

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “It did. Let’s get some sleep.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hogg put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, pointed to the ravine ahead of them, and said, “Not a bad place to take a break, master.”

  Daniel glanced toward the back of the line where Sun, as senior petty officer, should be marching to chivy in stragglers. He was there, all right, but little Vesey was guiding him along. Barnes walked alongside, carrying Sun’s pack as well as his own.

  Which Hogg had already noticed. “Unit, fall out in the ravine!” Daniel ordered. “Ten minute break! Captain out.”

  The spacers were tired, but they broke into a jog and grinned as they passed Daniel and Hogg. Dasi took Sun’s left arm and helped Vesey move the gunner’s mate into a trot also. Sun’s legs moved when prodded, but his eyes had no life in them.

  “We’re going to be carrying him by the end of the day,” Hogg murmured. “Fuck me if we’re not.”

  Daniel looked at his rotund servant. “Yes,” he said. “Maybe we’d better look for suitable poles here, just in case. We can use the ground cloth for a bed.”

  He followed Hogg down the bank, which sloped because wind had recently undercut the lip and dumped it as a scree of pebbles and adobe clay onto the base of the ravine. Midway he paused to survey the bank to either side, then went t
he rest of the way down. The crew had already chopped a small clearing in the brush so that they didn’t have to hunch under arched branches.

  Sentino sloshed water from the last of their three jerricans into a cup. The osmotic pump they’d set in the underground aquifer overnight had made up the seven or eight gallons they’d drunk from the original supply, but by mid-afternoon of this second day the spacers marching in dry air had absorbed ten gallons.

  Sentino held the cup out to Daniel. “Here you go, sir,” she said. “You get the cherry.”

  Rather than argue that he’d wait his turn—and besides, he was thirsty—Daniel took the cup and had it almost to his lips when the smell hit him. If he’d been out in the wind, he might have swallowed down most of the cup unawares, which would have been a great deal worse than going thirsty.

  “Stop!” he said. “The water’s contaminated. We’ll have to discard the container, I’m afraid, because we don’t have a means of cleaning it here.”

  Sun pushed Sentino aside and put his nose to the jerrican’s wide mouth. He rose with a look of white rage. “God damn Pettin’s shit-eating chicken-fucking whoreson excuses for spacers!” he shouted. His near stupor of moments before had passed. “And God damn me for accepting the cans without checking them!”

  He picked up the jerrican by one of the paired handles on top and slung it a good twenty feet into the bushes. That was a remarkable throw for five gallons of water with the weight of the container.

  “We got the jerricans from the Winckelmann, sir,” Barnes explained softly. He and Dasi looked as miserable as Sun was angry. “The Sissie didn’t have anything suitable, but the cruiser’s outfitted for ground operations so we figured …”

  “Traded them a bottle of brandy,” Dasi said. Stolen from Delos Vaughn’s baggage, no doubt. “It wasn’t Mr. Sun’s fault, sir, it was me and Barnes did it. And we didn’t check the cans.”

  One of which had been used for some petroleum product, probably extra kerosine for the fuel cells of the Winckelmann’s big aircar; and hadn’t been properly cleaned afterwards. Nobody on the Princess Cecile had noticed the smell before filling the container with water. They’d been in a hurry, of course.