In the Stormy Red Sky

by David Drake

  "No thank you," said Adele. Mistress Sand had a tumbler which, given her taste, would be a whiskey and soda. Adele wasn't thirsty, and a meeting with the Republic's spymaster would never have been a good time to numb her intellect.

  She seated herself primly and brought out her personal data unit, then glanced at the club's information console. Did members really use it? She could only assume that they did.

  "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" said Sand.

  Adele felt the corner of her lips quirk in a smile. "Actually, I was wondering whether Bleeker's has a sideline in blackmailing its members," she said. "But that's unworthy of me. Besides, you wouldn't have asked me to meet you here if that were the case."

  "Bleeker's is as safe as the Senate House," Sand said. "And it gives me a chance to be your guest, Lady Mundy. Someone in my position can't be a member of a political club, of course."

  She smiled, but her face looked tired. The war was going well enough—the war was going well, in fact—but the Alliance had half again the resources of Cinnabar and her circle of client worlds. A single misstep by the Republic could lead to a downward spiral which nothing could arrest. Avoiding that misstep was as much the business of the intelligence services as it was of the RCN, and Mistress Sand didn't have four colleagues to spread the burden as the President of the Navy Board did.

  "Sure you won't . . . ?" Sand said, then spread her hands in apology when Adele lifted her chin curtly. "No, of course, you meant what you said. I'm—"

  Her eyes drifted to the pair of portraits flanking the information console. Adele resisted the urge to pull out her data unit and learn who the couple—the man and woman, anyway—was. She could check the club's inventory list; there was bound to be one.

  But it was more important to hear how Mistress Sand completed her sentence.

  "I'm delighted that you'll be accompanying Senator Forbes to Karst," Sand said, which from the tone wasn't anything like the thought she'd almost offered. "The business is of critical importance to the Republic, so much so that I'd have gotten you assigned if my uniformed friends hadn't done just that without my interference."

  "Gotten me assigned?" Adele said as her wands called up the folder titled Ships on Active Service; she'd downloaded it from a Navy House. Her voice was flat. Only the fact she'd made the repeated words a question lent emphasis to "me."

  "Gotten Leary assigned!" Sand said. She reached for her glass, then instead took out a meerschaum snuffbox carved with mythological figures in high relief. "Dammit, Mundy, I don't need to fight about the obvious with you too, do I?"

  I'm angry about Huxford, Adele realized. But I've decided not to raise the matter directly, so it's dishonorable to let my anger out in petty ways.

  "No," she said, "you don't. Why is the Hegemony so important? Their naval forces have been negligible since the Treaty of Karst, and they've never supplied us with ground troops."

  Adele had been about to sort the Navy List for vessels with staterooms comparable to those on the Milton. That had been merely a task to occupy her fingers and the surface levels of her mind while her intellect worked on the greater problem of why Sand had summoned her. She now shifted her attention back to the Hegemony of the Veil, which of course she'd looked into as soon she'd learned of the Milton's mission.

  "What Headman Terl did and we're very anxious that his successor continue," said Sand, "is to supply food and naval stores to the Cinnabar forces in the Montserrat Stars. The Alliance was well on the way to completing the conquest of the entire cluster, which would give Guarantor Porra a large pool of spacers. We were forced to respond, so Admiral Ozawa took a large squadron there. We have no way of supplying him if the Hegemony withdraws its support."

  Adele shifted her information fields once again. "Do you think it's likely that Headman Hieronymos will do that?" she said. "His grandfather died wealthy and in bed, because he remained a Cinnabar ally."

  The Montserrat Stars had never united on their own, and none of the individual worlds had warships bigger than destroyers. There was a great deal of intersystem trade, however, and Adele knew that small freighters could provide trained spacers for the ships which Alliance yards were building.

  Mistress Sand raised her left hand to her nose with a pinch of snuff in the cup of her thumb. She pressed the right nostril closed with an index finger and inhaled sharply. After sneezing violently into her palm, she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her face.

  Adele slid the data unit to the right so that its holographic display wasn't between them. She waited silently.

  Sand finished her ritual and met Adele's eyes. "Jason Das on Paton is the governor of the thirty worlds of the Veil which are under Cinnabar authority," she said. "He's a career officer of the Ministry of Client Affairs, not a political appointee."

  She smiled harshly. "The post isn't important enough to be political," she explained. "The significant worlds of the cluster are subject to the Hegemony. Regardless, Das as the nearest Cinnabar official sent his deputy to Karst to congratulate the new Headman on his elevation. Das reported that Hieronymos seemed uninterested in treating with local officials. As a result of this report, the Senate decided to send a high-level delegation."

  "Yes," said Adele, to show that she was paying attention. Though there wasn't much reason she should: everything Mistress Sand had just said was so public that even news commentators were hinting at it. Whether they Viewed the Matter Darkly or considered it a Great Diplomatic Opportunity depended on whether they supported the opposition or the government.

  "There are Alliance agents in the Headman's court," Sand said, turning the snuffbox over, then upright, between her fingers. "Their intercepted reports say that Hieronymos treated the deputy governor with utter contempt. The hall porter told him that the Headman would not recognize any subordinate as an envoy. The tone put a different complexion on Governor Das's description of the meeting."

  Adele frowned. She started to call up another folder but paused when she realized it would be better to ask Mistress Sand instead. The file of officers, agents, and sources might give a more truthful answer, but she could check it when she was alone. It would be even more informative if she found discrepancies with what her superior told her.

  "Mistress," Adele said. "We have agents on Karst also, do we not?"

  "The Republic has agents, yes," Sand said. She chuckled and put the snuffbox away. "We may as well laugh, eh?"

  Her expression focused, rather like Daniel's when he was working at the attack board. She continued, "For historical reasons, those agents report to the Ministry of Client Affairs. Which in its wisdom chose to route all information through the governor on Paton rather than setting up a parallel reporting network. I believe that Das's deputy, the man who acted as envoy to Hieronymos, has the Veil's intelligence portfolio also."

  "Ah," said Adele.

  "That's much milder than what I said when I learned of the situation," Sand said with a rueful smile. "Fortunately, I was keeping a closer eye on Alliance agents than I was on how Client Affairs ran their shop. Though for a time after I learned about this, I wondered if my priorities had been wrong."

  Adele looked toward her holographic display—still showing economic data on the Hegemony—rather than appear to be staring at Mistress Sand while she considered options. After a moment, she met Sand's eyes and said, "How do you foresee my being able to help Senator Forbes?"

  "I don't," said Sand. "What I want from you is a current, authoritative report on the situation in the Hegemony. With that in hand, I hope to be able to convince my colleagues in government—"

  A smile brushed across her face as lightly as a cat's tail. Sand had no formal position whatever in the Republic's government.

  "—to withdraw Admiral Ozawa from the Montserrat Stars to Karst immediately. That will mean giving the Alliance a free run in the cluster, but if we don't bring Hieronymos to a better sense of his place quickly, I'm afraid we'll lose the Hegemony also. And very possibly Ozawa's s
quadron to boot."

  "I see," said Adele. After a moment's hesitation, she shut down her data unit and stood to put it away. Her gray civilian suit had hair-fine blue stripes on the bias; because it was cut fuller than the tailor had initially recommended, neither the data unit nor the little pistol attracted notice until she brought them out.

  "Will you have a drink now, Mundy?" Sand said, still seated. "There's a good white wine in the sideboard."

  "I have a great deal to prepare before liftoff," Adele said. "And frankly, I don't see that a drink will help."

  Mistress Sand smiled like a crucified saint. "Nor do I," she said. "But at the moment I'm not confident that anything will help. I hope you'll prove me wrong, Mundy."

  "Yes," said Adele. "So do I."

  She paused and turned with her hand on the latch. Sand put down the whiskey decanter and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  "Mistress," Adele said, "Client Affairs has failed the Republic. I can see why you'd feel that the business is down to your organization . . . and I will try not to fail, of course."

  "Thank you, Mundy," Sand said, waiting for the rest of the thought.

  "But you're not considering the RCN as a factor," Adele said. "I think you should. Especially when Daniel Leary represents the RCN."

  She heard Mistress Sand chuckling as the door shut between them.

  CHAPTER 4

  Xenos on Cinnabar

  After the Battle of the Jewel System, Captain Stickel of the Lao-tze had invited Daniel to dinner at his club when they next were on Cinnabar together. Stickel was an able officer and far too senior to snub with impunity, so Daniel had sent in his card when the old battleship arrived on Xenos for refitting in Harbor Three.

  Daniel had assumed "my club" meant Harbor House or the RCN Club; or just possibly the Land and Stars Institute, though that catered more to retired generals and admirals. In the event, Stickel's invitation turned out to be to the Sunset, a club for Western landowners.

  As they relaxed over brandy, Daniel looked around the dark-paneled dining room. The fourteen occupied tables were each lighted by a wick floating in a saucer of stone-shark oil, the traditional source of illumination in the huts of West Coast fisherman.

  That hadn't been true for hundreds of years, of course; the club must now have to render its own sharks to get the oil. That wasn't sufficient reason to drop the tradition, of course, and no other expense had been spared over the delicious dinner, either.

  "Looking for your father, Leary?" said Stickel, a big, craggy man. "He's a member, but I haven't seen him here but the once. I'm not a regular myself, of course, between the RCN and preferring to spend my time at Three Piers when I'm on Xenos."

  "No sir," said Daniel. "Though I do see one of the Tausigs; their holdings are on the Bantry Peninsula with ours. I was looking at the fishing gear above the paneling."

  He gestured carefully with his snifter. "Back when I was ten, I put a pole gaff like that one into a sand sucker bigger than the boat I was in."

  "Did you indeed?" said Stickel with interest. "Land him?"

  Daniel laughed. "Bloody hell, no!" he said. "Hogg—my man—clouted me over the ear and kicked the gaff away from the boat before the sucker connected us with what was happening in his right gill slit. He told me the next time I did something so daft, I'd go into the water and he'd keep the gaff."

  Stickel guffawed, then smothered further laughter in his napkin. The elderly gentleman at the next table glared, but no one else remarked on the outburst.

  "Well, it really was stupid," Daniel said ruefully. "Sucker sprats roasted on a bed of ocean cress are delicious, at least if you're camping out, but an adult sucker, especially a big one, isn't good for anything but fertilizer."

  Stickel took a sip of brandy; he eyed Daniel with the snifter still half raised. Another diner's knife clicked against his plate in the general silence.

  "You haven't changed, though, Leary," he said. "Have you? I hear you took a corvette close enough to an Alliance battleship to dock with her."

  Daniel grimaced. They hadn't discussed the RCN during dinner. Stickel's estate, Three Piers, was a hundred miles down the coast from Bantry. The similar culture allowed them to chat easily about home, which had appeared to be what the senior man wanted.

  It now seemed that Stickel had waited for the brandy. Well, he was the host, so the subjects were his to choose.

  "Let's say that I've learned to choose my occasions better," Daniel said. "There wasn't a great deal of choice during that action in the Strymon System, not if our squadron was to survive. I knew our rig would absorb the first salvo, and . . ."

  He paused, wondering if he should explain that Adele was decrypting Alliance signals and providing him with their gist. He decided he wouldn't.

  "And we were very lucky," he concluded.

  "I'm generally luckiest after I've done the most planning," Stickel said, finishing his brandy and setting the goblet down. "I shouldn't wonder if it didn't work that way for you too, Leary."

  Daniel noticed to his surprise that his own snifter was empty also. Stickel was friendly, but there was always the risk of putting a foot wrong when talking with a senior officer you didn't know very well.

  "Yessir," he said, "it's generally that way. Off Strymon, though, there wasn't time to do more than act and pray. We were bloody lucky."

  He grinned toward his hands on the bowl of the snifter. At least in a battle you knew that the other party was out to get you.

  "I haven't seen your Milton yet," Stickel said. "The imagery makes her look something of a pig, though."

  Daniel set the snifter aside. "Ah, not at all, sir," he said, making an effort not to sound as sharp as his first instinct was.

  He cleared his throat into his balled fist, then resumed, "She won't be as handy as the Princess Cecile—not as handy as a corvette, that is—but I think with her sparring and a full suit of sails we'll be able to jump gradients that I wouldn't have dared in the Sissie. We'll learn on the run to Paton, but with the present crew I hope to better the normal time by quite a lot."

  Stickel grinned; Daniel realized the senior captain had been testing him. "We'll have another brandy, Leary," he said. "If you think your head's up to it, of course."

  Daniel matched the other's grin. "Hogg's in the servants' parlor, sir," he said. "If he has to carry me to the tram, well, it won't be the first time."

  The ball-shaped brandy bottle was on the table. As Stickel reached for it, however, a waiter with lapel flashes in the club colors, orange and burnt umber, appeared. He poured precisely, then vanished back into an alcove like a piece of statuary in formal attire.

  "I've heard comments about your crew," Stickel said. "Heard complaints, I should say. To hear other captains tell it, you've cherry-picked a crew from the best spacers on Cinnabar."

  "And beyond," Daniel said with a full smile. He could afford to show pride in his crew; any captain would be proud. "I've got Pellegrinians, Bennarians, and some from the Gods alone know where. But sir, they picked me. I put out a call for volunteers, and they came. There wasn't anything underhanded going on."

  Stickel looked for a moment as if he was on the verge of another guffaw, but instead he just chuckled. "I believe you, Leary," he said. "But I think that's what makes them angriest."

  His angular face fell back into serious lines. "As I say, you've no worries about your crew," he resumed. "What about your officers, though?"

  Daniel tilted his head toward the ceiling of textured glass panels thirty feet above. The night sky wasn't bright enough to bring out the details of the central roundel in the stained glass. It seemed to be a landscape or more likely seascape, given the Sunset's membership roll.

  "The warrant officers are largely people who sailed with me in the Princess Cecile," he said, avoiding the real point of the question while he mulled how to respond to it. "That means a considerable promotion for most of them, though my Chief of Ship, Pasternak, served on a heavy cruiser in the past. He took the lo
wer base pay of a corvette because he hoped to lay away more for his retirement from prize money."

  "Which he did?" said Stickel.

  "Which he most certainly did," Daniel said, nodding in satisfaction. "I've warned him that there won't be anything like the same opportunities in a cruiser, but he seems satisfied."

  "I should say he must be satisfied," said Stickel. "A Chief Engineer would've made enough out of the Milton's capture alone to retire to anything short of a palace, wouldn't he?"

  "I dare say you're right, sir," said Daniel. "I've been very lucky to have Mister Pasternak in the Power Room."

  He cleared his throat. "I have five midshipmen," he went on. "Two I've sailed with in the past and am very satisfied with. Cory has already qualified for lieutenant; Cazelet, the other, comes from the merchant service but he's shaping up very well."