by David Drake
"This suits me well," said Daniel, easing himself onto one of the pair of massive wooden chairs in front of the desk. The seat itself was of braided leather and unexpectedly comfortable, but that didn't really matter for the brief period he expected to occupy it. "Ah—you mentioned Cone Transport. How much interaction do you have with Master Beckford, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I don't mind a bit," said Das, pouring an inch into each of the three glasses he'd taken from the drawer along with the bottle. Daniel's eyes were adapting to the light; he thought the liquor seemed to be cherry-colored rather than simply a dark brown. "No interaction at all, is the answer."
"We're aware that Beckford owns Cone Transport," the aide said, taking a glass and sliding a second across the table to Daniel. "But he has nothing to do with running the company or any of his companies, as best we can see. He lives on Paton by choice, not because Cone Transport is a major industry here."
"Take water to taste, Leary," Das said, rotating the water pitcher so that the handle was toward Daniel. "It's porphyrion, something of a specialty of the Veil, you know. I like to cut it by half myself, but I know you spacers have heads that an old landsman like me can't imagine."
Daniel sipped, wondering what porphyrion might be when it was at home. Adele would have her data unit out if she were here. In fact, she'd probably have started checking the instant the bottle of ruddy fluid came out of the drawer instead of waiting for Das to use the word.
"It's beet liqueur," said the aide helpfully. "Some claim that the best is distilled on Karst, but we've grown to like the flavor of the Paton product better."
If there was a flavor—and the color indicated porphyrion wasn't simply industrial alcohol—Daniel missed it, but he'd drunk his share of Power Room slash during his years in the RCN and this wasn't any worse. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Straight up is fine with me. Ah—what sort of labor does Cone Transport need?"
"Lift and carry, mostly," Das said, leaning back in his chair. "They've got huge farms, maize and turnips for greens mostly. It's heavily mechanized, but you still need human beings. Cone brings in contract labor in its own ships when they take out the crops. They're always glad of a little extra that doesn't require transport costs, though—and that's where the prisoners come in handy."
Daniel finished his drink, pursing his lips for a moment of silent thought. Das tapped the bottle and said, "Another?"
"In a moment, sir," Daniel said. He tilted a few fingers of water into his glass and drank it down to clear his mouth. Shoving the empty toward the governor, he said, "Basic subsistence crops like that usually aren't economic to transport long distances. Do you have any idea where they're going?"
"No sir," said the aide. Her tone was subdued.
"Leary . . . ," said the governor as he finished pouring. He set the bottle on the desk with more of a thump than he probably intended to. "We carry out our duties here. We make sure that prisoners are released when their sentences are up, and we check the conditions for contract laborers generally on Cone Transport's farms."
"They're not leisure spas," said the aide. "But there's food and medical facilities. And the housing's better than what noncontract laborers who live in Hereward have, most of them."
"Master William Beckford doesn't make trouble on Paton," Das said forcefully. "People enter and leave his estate at Mount Marfa only in his own vehicles, that's true, but there's nothing wrong with that. Anybody's got the right to shut his door to other people, and if Beckford's got a bigger house than most, then he's still got the same rights."
"Captain," said the aide, "we don't borrow trouble. If Beckford came here because there's more space between him and his neighbors than there was on Cinnabar—well, there is more space. And he's doing nothing wrong!"
"I won't swear to that," said the governor with a half smile. He swirled the watered liqueur in his glass, then took another sip. "I won't swear that about my seventy-nine-year-old mother on Xanthippe. But I will say there's not even rumors, not beyond the sort who claims the pawnbroker down the street is an Alliance spy."
Daniel laughed, drank, and pushed his glass over for another refill. "I understand," he said. "My family's estate is on the West Coast. We don't take to officials from Xenos telling us how to do things, so long as there's no complaints . . . which seems the case here with Beckford. And anyway, it's no business of an RCN captain, is it?"
"I know there's a belief that all protectorate officials are corrupt, Leary," the aide said. "That isn't true, here in the Veil at least."
"There's remarkably little reason for turnip farmers to need to bribe anyone," Das said, lowering his reemptied glass. His cheeks and forehead had a rosy glow. He sounded more rueful than bitter, though there might've been some of both. "Cone Transport may have other interests, but not here on Paton."
"Those troops?" said the aide. She kept raising the glass to her lips, but the level didn't seem to change when she set it down again. "Not that I think there's anything wrong, but . . . ?"
"There's something wrong, all right, but it's not the Cone factor's fault," Das said. He turned to Daniel. "There's a regiment of troops billeted here in a Cone warehouse and Factor Amberly's tearing his hair out. There's something wrong with the navigation system of the ship they're to leave on and nobody seems to be able to fix it. Amberly was here just the other day, asking if we could help."
The aide smiled at her glass. "The staff of the Veil Protectorate doesn't run to astrogators, I'm afraid," she said. "But, ah . . . Captain?"
She raised her eyes. Das was looking at Daniel hopefully also.
"Well, I suppose I could take a look at the problem," he said, keeping his face neutral while he thought. He didn't want to call attention to the Spezza and her secret mission, but under the circumstances it was going to cause more speculation if an RCN captain refused to help a unit of the Republic's troops which was having difficulties. "The senator said she planned to spend forty-eight hours on the ground before she'd be ready to leave for Karst."
He cleared his throat. He could imagine getting a taste for porphyrion, which he never would've said about alcohol bled from the Power Room hydraulics.
"Speaking of Karst," he said, "how do you—closer to the problem, that is—feel about Headman Hieronymos?"
The aide made a choking sound. She turned her head and gulped down half her drink. She wasn't faking it this time.
Das grimaced but met Daniel's eyes. "I think it's well beyond anything the Protectorate Service can fix," he said flatly. "Sending a senatorial envoy in a cruiser was a good idea. Sending a fleet of battleships would be an even better one."
He took a deep breath and went on, "And yes, I know Jeff—my deputy, Jeff Merrick—screwed up. I know it and Anya here knows it and believe me, Jeff knows it."
"He's a good man," said the aide, who now had a first name. She'd finished the porphyrion; the empty glass was trembling between her hands. "He's a wonderful man, smart and completely trustworthy, wonderful. But what does he know about spies? What do any of us know about spies?"
"Here, Anya," Das said. "Give me your glass."
As he poured, he continued, "It's really that simple, Captain. Jeff handles the customs duties for the whole region. There are never any problems—I couldn't ask for a better man. Foreign intelligence is part of the deputy's duties, but there wasn't any foreign intelligence, this is the Veil. By the Gods, I'm the regional medical officer! Am I at fault if a plague breaks out on Paton?"
He shrugged. Daniel suspected he'd have turned his palms up if that wouldn't have required him to put down his glass. "I sent Jeff off to Thorndyke to review the customs receipts there until I recalled him," he said. "The ministry could sack him but they won't, because bloody foreign intelligence isn't their priority either. The Gods only know what Senator Forbes might do if Jeff stayed where she could find him, though. So I got him out of the way."
Daniel weighed the options, then grinned. After all, hanging a competent financial officer w
asn't going to make the situation on Karst any more to the Republic's benefit.
"Well, what do you think, Captain Leary?" said the aide in a trembling voice.
"My dear lady," said Daniel, "I think that your beet liqueur has quite grown on me. Governor, I'll have another glassful, if you please, while Anya copies all your files on the Hegemony to the Milton, Attention Signals Officer."
Turning again to the aide, he said, "Your console can do that, can't it?"
"Why . . . ," she said, looking toward Das; he nodded firmly. "Yes, of course I can. I, I'll get to it at once."
As the governor refilled the glasses, Daniel said, "As you say, foreign intelligence isn't the business of the Client Affairs or the RCN either one, I'll add. I'm sure that the persons whose job it really is are hard at work right now."
He grinned. He knew that one of them certainly was.
CHAPTER 8
Hereward Harbor, Paton
Daniel had decided that they would walk rather than take a taxi or a bumboat to the Spezza, because he'd thought it would give him and the midshipmen a better feel for the harbor. That was doubtless true, but the morning sun seemed very bright, and every time his left heel struck the esplanade, a hot ice pick jabbed up his right nostril. Porphyrion wasn't nearly as enticing a beverage on the morning after as it'd seemed yesterday afternoon.
"Good day, sir!" he called to the watchman's shack. The gate was swung back against the chain-link fence on both sides, but he didn't think it was politic to simply walk in.
The figure within sat far enough back from the window that Daniel couldn't determine even gender without pulling up the imaging goggles he wore around his neck. Because he and the two midshipmen were in their 2nd class uniforms, they couldn't properly wear commo helmets . . . and they couldn't properly leave the ship in their utilities.
Under other circumstances Daniel might've been more concerned with what was practical than what was proper, but he was introducing himself to the commander of an allied military unit. And of course he had to consider Senator Forbes's presence. She hadn't been hostile to him thus far during the voyage, but she was angry enough at life and her present circumstances that he didn't want to give her an opportunity to force his superiors to crucify him.
A youngish man stuck his head from the shack to look at them. His khaki shirt had a breast patch and might've been a uniform. He didn't speak.
"We're from the Milton," Daniel said, gesturing back in a general way toward the cruiser's berth. "I'm Captain Leary, and these are Midshipmen Cory and Else. We were told that Captain Kelly of the Spezza could use our help. And Colonel Stockheim, the commander of the regiment the Spezza's supposed to be transporting."
"Oh," said the watchman, nodding wisely. "They're in Berth CT7. You can't miss 'em, that's the big one."
"Thank you, sir," Daniel called as he and his officers strolled into the Cone Transport reservation.
"Why did they fence it all all like this?" Else asked quietly, as though she were afraid that the watchman would come running out after them if he didn't like the question.
"Cone Transport has all twelve berths on the east end of the harbor," Daniel said, "so it's reasonable that they'd have some sort of security here."
He cleared his throat and added, "Which, if I'd been thinking more clearly, I would've anticipated. I hadn't appreciated the degree to which Cone Transport is involved in this operation. I'm glad my lack of preparation didn't lead to embarrassment."
In a normal voice, keeping his face deadpan, he added, "While I have the highest respect for my Millies, I wouldn't have wanted to have to shoot our way in against a regiment of the Brotherhood of Amorgos."
Cory's face worked. He managed to hold the laughter in till he saw Else's stricken expression; then it burst out in a loud guffaw, which he smothered with both hands. "Sorry, sir," he muttered through his laced fingers.
"It's all right to laugh at your captain's jokes, Cory," Daniel said. "In fact, it's generally regarded as a career-enhancing activity."
"Sir, I'm sorry," said Else, looking as though she'd just been told to choose between impalement and boiling in oil. "I mean, sir . . . Sir, I've heard the stories about you and the Princess Cecile. I didn't know you were joking."
"The stories are exaggerated, Else," Daniel said, making the point he'd deliberately set up with the absurd suggestion. "I don't expect to issue small arms to the crew at all on this voyage. Remember that we're carrying an embassy to a friendly power."
The Spezza was twice the size of the next-largest ship in the Cone reservation, so even a six-year-old landsman would've been able to identify her with as little difficulty as Daniel had. The floating bridge to her boarding ramp had been extruded from beige foam with red edges, the Cone Transport colors. There was a guard at the pier end of the ramp, which was normal; but it was a squad of fully armed soldiers in battledress, and they'd set up an automatic impeller on a tripod whose legs were weighted with sandbags.
"Isn't that a little excessive?" said Cory, showing that his mind had turned in the same direction as Daniel's. He was seeming more and more like a midshipman who was due promotion.
"Well . . . ," said Daniel. "Brotherhood troops have a very high reputation. Perhaps they gained it by not taking any unnecessary chances, hey?"
"Like your spacers, sir?" Cory said. "I mean, not taking any chances that aren't necessary to win."
"I wouldn't have put it that way, Cory," Daniel said. "But now that you have, I don't disagree."
The soldiers hadn't been lounging before, but now most of them watched the RCN officers intently. Two had faced around to keep the bow and stern of the ship under observation, however. If raiders came around the transport while Daniel and the midshipmen were attempting a distraction, they'd be met with an immediate burst of slugs.
Only a few moments after Daniel and his party had turned onto the pier, a tall, flagpole-straight man came out of the Spezza's boarding hatch. Like the guards, he wore battledress patterned in black and dark greens; only his short gray beard implied that he was a senior officer. He wasn't running, but his legs scissored at a rate that brought him to the guardpost while Daniel was still ten yards away.
"I'm sorry, sirs," the officer called. He didn't sound sorry—about much of anything. "This berth is under the control of the Brotherhood of Amorgos at present. No civilians are permitted past this point."
The guards held their automatic carbines slanted across their chests. They weren't overtly threatening, but they looked very ready for action.
"Factor Amberly requested the assistance of the Veil authorities with what he said was an astrogation problem," Daniel said. He halved the distance and then stopped, clasping his arms at his waist; Cory and Else halted a pace back, one to either side. "And Governor Das passed the matter on to the RCN, so we're here. I'm Captain Leary of the Milton, and these are two of my officers. We were to ask for Captain Thomas Kelly, but if you'd prefer that we not involve ourselves . . . ?"
The officer shook his head in disgust. "Amberly should have told me and I'd have warned you," he said. "That is . . ."
He straightened. "Captain Leary, please come aboard. I'm Colonel Thomas Stockheim of the Sixth Phratry, at your service."
A smile lifted the left side of Stockheim's mouth. "Better," he said, "I should say that I'm very glad that you're offering your services. Your male companion is welcome also, but—"
All traces of the smile vanished.
"—we cannot permit the other person aboard a Brotherhood vessel, even a hired vessel. Factor Amberly was remiss, and not for the first time. I'm very sorry if this seems a discourtesy, but I have no choice."
"Ah!" said Daniel. He did know that about the Brotherhood, though the fact hadn't risen into his conscious memory until he tripped over the reality. He'd been thinking of the Spezza and her Hydriote crew, rather than the troops who'd seemed to him to be only cargo. Clearly the troops had their own differing opinion on the matter.
"Sir?"
said Else, touching the data unit cased on her equipment belt. "I can wait by the crane—"
A heavy crawler with shearlegs folded back over its hull was parked on the esplanade near the head of the pier. She nodded toward it.
"—and work on the astrogation exercises Mister Robinson set us."
Daniel gave her a quick, false smile and nodded. He said, "Yes, that's a good idea. If we're going to be any length of time, I'll contact you."
Daniel very much doubted that Else would be working on her astrogation while she waited, but he couldn't complain. It was his fault that she'd wasted the trip to the Spezza to begin with.
Else was addicted to the so-called novellas of her home planet, Schopenhauer. According to Adele—who of course had checked—she had brought a library of over a thousand novellas along on the voyage. They uniformly centered on strong, passionate women who were enmeshed in familial duties and the simultaneous loves of at least two angst-ridden men.