by David Weber
"You two would make really lousy psychotherapists," she pronounced. "Aren't you supposed to be . . . you know. At least a little sympathetic?"
Berry thought Web's response was exceedingly uncouth. "Why?" he demanded. She herself was already giving Ruth another warm hug.
"Don't be a bastard, Web," she growled, squeezing Ruth more tightly for just an instant.
"Why not? I am a bastard." He stuck out his tongue, showing the genetic markers, pointing to them with a stubby forefinger. "Thee? Nod a wegaw pawent in thide."
He withdrew the tongue. "Nope. Neither mother nor father recorded, to give me a proper upbringing. Just 'J-16b-79-2/3.' That's me. A bastard born and bred."
Ruth managed a chuckle, of sorts. "You don't have to be quite so smug about it."
"You certainly don't," chimed in Berry firmly. She tightened her arms around Ruth's shoulders. Berry understood Web's attitude, well enough—Cachat's too, for that matter. She even shared it herself, to a degree. But she also thought both of them had a tendency to err in the other direction; a tendency which, pushed too far, could become every bit as ugly as the callous indifference of the high and mighty.
"It's kind of a screwed-up universe," she whispered into Ruth's ear. "We just do the best we can, that's all."
Ruth was back to sobbing again; or, at least, trying to stifle the sobs. But Berry could feel her head nodding. Quite firmly, in fact.
She found that very reassuring. Especially combined with the sobs.
"I really like you a lot," she whispered. "And I know Laura and Christina did too. They told me, once."
There was no stifling the sobs now. Nor should they have been stifled. Berry just maintained the embrace, while giving Web a meaningful glance.
He didn't mistake the meaning of that glance. Okay, bastard. You've done your job. She'll be fine in a few hours. Now get the hell out of here.
He was on his feet and heading for the door at once. No professor, not even Du Havel, was that absentminded.
Chapter 32
Commander Watson greeted Oversteegen as he stepped onto Gauntlet's bridge.
"Sorry to disturb you, Sir," the XO said, "but I thought you'd better take a look at this." She gestured at the display screen.
"What is it?" Oversteegen came over.
The XO pressed a button, bringing up a display. "It's a recording of a broadcast made less than an hour ago by Countess Fraser. The first official statement on the kidnaping by our ambassador."
Oversteegen tightened his jaws. From the look on Watson's face, he wasn't going to like what he was about to see.
* * *
By the end, in fact, he was downright furious. The first two-thirds of Fraser's statement he could have accepted, more or less, as meaningless diplomatic prattle. But the Manticoran ambassador hadn't been satisfied with just leaving it at that. Instead, at the end, she'd placed the blame squarely on Erewhon:
" . . . outrageous that the Princess' guards were slaughtered, in the middle of Erewhonese security . . ."
"She is aware that almost two dozen Erewhonese security guards were also murdered by Templeton's gang, isn't she?" grated Oversteegen. The XO, recognizing a rhetorical question—and the seething anger behind it—made no reply.
" . . . entirely Erewhon's responsibility, and the Star Kingdom of Manticore will hold its authorities responsible for the well-being of the Princess. Furthermore—"
That was the point at which Oversteegen reached out a long finger and ended the recording. The gesture had something of the finality of an executioner pushing a red button.
"Get me the Manticoran embassy," he said. "I'll take the call in my cabin."
Within seconds after Oversteegen entered his cabin, an embassy official was on the screen. Someone named Joseph Gatri, who apparently bore the resplendent title of Third Consular Assistant, or some such.
"I'm afraid the ambassador isn't available at the moment, Captain. Is there something I—"
"Tell Deborah that if she's not 'available' in—" His lips peeled back in a smile that was indistinguishable from a snarl. "—exactly one minute, there will be royal hell t' pay."
The Third Assistant Whatever stared at him. "But, ah, Captain . . ."
Oversteegen was studying his watch. "Fifty-five seconds. That's also, by the way, a measure of the time left in your probable career. Get Deborah, you nincompoop!"
* * *
Countess Fraser appeared with less than ten seconds remaining in Oversteegen's deadline. She did not look like a happy woman.
"What is it, Captain Oversteegen? And I would appreciate it if you'd stick to the proper formalities."
"Get screwed, Deborah. You're one of my multitude of cousins—God must have been a bit absentminded, there—and every bit as incompetent as your whole branch of the family usually is. What in God's name do you think you're doin'? Our relations with Erewhon were bad enough already, without you addin' a completely gratuitous public insult t' the mix."
She drew back angrily. "You can't—!"
"Talk to you this way? The hell I can't. And answer my question!"
The countess' lips tightened. Then, suddenly, what might have been a sly look came onto her face.
"Oh. I see. You only met her once, as I recall, so you probably don't remember."
"What are you talkin' about?"
It was a sly look. "Ha! You've been duped, Michael. The Erewhonese are playing us for fools. Trying to, rather, but I found them out. That so-called 'kidnaped princess' is nothing of the sort. I've met Princess Ruth—and she was on broadcast blabbering about her adventures. They must have used nanotech to change their appearances, but the voice was a giveaway. The girl those maniacs grabbed is the other one, the Zilwicki girl."
Oversteegen shook his head. Not in disagreement, simply in order to clear it. The ambassador's thought processes made no sense at all.
"I fail t' see what relevance that has t' the issue—assuming it's true, which I won't argue. What difference does it make, anyway? Regardless of which girl Templeton and his maniacs attacked, we have no business insultin' the Erewhonese over it."
Now, Fraser managed to combined slyness with exasperation. "Oh, for pity's sake, Michael! I didn't make that statement in order to hurt the feelings of your darling little Erewhonese. I did it simply to get us—you, to be precise—out of an impossible situation. If the girl Templeton grabbed had been Princess Ruth, we'd have had to get her out no matter what the cost. As it is—"
She shrugged. "Hopefully, of course, no harm will come to the Zilwicki girl. But it's not as if it really matters to the Star Kingdom, does it? And whatever happens—thanks to my statement—it will be the Erewhonese and not us who take the blame for it."
Oversteegen stared at her for perhaps five seconds. His sheer anger was gone by the end of that time, replaced by something very close to weariness.
"I will leave out of all this the petty consideration that we're talkin' about the life of a teenage girl. I realize that's a matter beneath your contempt. I will just take the opportunity t' tell you, since I don't believe I've ever done it before at one of our family gatherin's—not precisely, I mean—just how brainless you are, Deborah. Truly brainless. Not simply stupid. Bar-ain-less. As in: brains of a carrot."
"You can't—!"
"You imbecile! First of all, the entire inhabited galaxy will most certainly hold us responsible for our own actions—or inaction—in this episode. But it really doesn't matter, Deborah. It certainly won't matter t' you, that's for sure. Because if Anton Zilwicki decides you were responsible for his daughter's death, I can assure you that the man won't be in the least impressed by your official lack of responsibility. He's a rather notorious fellow, don't you know? Not given, so far as I can see, t' much in the way of respect for his betters."
He reached out a finger to the control panel. "This conversation is ended, since it was obviously pointless t' begin with. I will remind you, Madam Ambassador, that as the senior naval officer in the system
, I am obliged to 'coordinate' with you but am in no way under your authority. So, Deborah, consider us havin' 'coordinated'—you are a cretin and I told you so—and I will attend t' the Queen's business."
He pushed the button and the display vanished. Then, after chewing on the matter for perhaps five seconds, Oversteegen got in touch with his com officer. "Lieutenant Cheney, be so good as t' get me Berry Zilwicki. You'll be able t' find her through the station's central com. Put the call through t' me here, please."
Within a minute, Ruth Winton appeared in the display.
"Yes, Captain?"
Oversteegen cleared his throat. "Ah. Ms. Zilwicki. How nice t' see you again. I simply called t' let you know that I've changed my mind. Please feel free t' apply your, ah, special skills t' the task we discussed, and call upon me whenever you find it necessary. Have a good evenin'."
* * *
Ruth managed—barely—to refrain from issuing a war whoop. The enthusiastic manner in which she slammed open the door to Berry's bedroom in the suite probably made up for it. Obviously, Berry thought dryly, the princess had come fully to grips with any demons which might have spring from her decision to support Cachat's efforts.
"Let's go!" she hollered. "Oversteegen changed his mind! We're on!"
Fortunately, Berry had just finished changing into casual wear. So Ruth didn't do any actual damage to the tough and practical fabric, as she hauled her companion through the suite toward the door leading to the corridor.
"Okay, okay!" Berry protested. "I'm coming." She glanced at the door to Du Havel's bedroom. "What about the professor?"
"Let him sleep." The princess had her through the outer door. Once Berry closed it, Ruth let her go and started trotting down the corridor. "What happened?" Berry asked.
"Damfino. Somebody must have really pissed off the captain, though, from his expression." She turned her head, giving Berry a cheerful grin. "Don't think I'd particularly want Oversteegen mad at me, I can tell you that. He's a throwback, you know. Rumor has it that he's the reincarnation of his great-grandfather—mother's side—Orville Suderbush. Man fought something like fourteen duels. All but three ended fatally. Not a scratch on him."
She was around the corner and piling into an elevator.
"Where are we going?" Berry was starting to pant a little. Again, she made a vow to start an exercise program.
"See Cachat and Palane, what else? They're the ones who'll be running the show, for the next few days."
The elevator deposited them in a slightly less opulent-looking corridor. "I think Cachat's in Suite Klondike 45," Ruth muttered. "Should be right around this bend. . . ."
* * *
Her estimate was correct. But the proof of it caused the two girls to draw up short for a moment. Ginny Usher was lying on the corridor floor, right in front of the door to the suite. Sound asleep, apparently.
"Hm," murmured Ruth.
" 'Hm' is right," whispered Berry. "I think we ought to—"
What she thought went unspoken, since Ginny opened her eyes at that moment. Gave them a sharp look, then, apparently satisfied they posed no problem, stretched and sat up. She reminded Berry of a very good-looking cat.
"What's up?" Ginny yawned.
"We need to talk to Victor," replied Ruth.
Ginny shook her head. "Not a chance. He needs some, ah, rest. That's why I'm camping out here, to make sure nobody disturbs him."
She said the words placidly enough, but it was obvious to Berry that she'd be immovable on the subject.
Ruth had apparently reached the same conclusion. "Okay, then. We can probably start with Lieutenant Palane instead. Do you know where we could find her?"
"Sure." Ginny hooked a thumb at the door against which she was now leaning. "She's in there with Victor. Resting. I use the term a bit loosely, you understand."
Ruth and Berry stared at her. Ginny grinned.
"So there's not a cold chance in Hell I'm letting you in there. Forget it. I don't care if you're on a mission to save the galaxy. The galaxy will just have to wait."
Ruth and Berry stared at each other.
"Oh," said Ruth.
Berry was more loquacious. "Oh. Yeah."
Ruth sighed and leaned against the wall of the corridor. Then, sighing more heavily, slid down until she was sprawled on the corridor floor. "Damn."
Berry sat down next to her. "Look on the bright side. At least they'll be in a better mood in the morning than they were just a little while ago. Well. I hope, anyway."
A noise came through the door. There were no distinguishable words. Berry had an image of a tigress in heat, howling mezzo-soprano passion.
"Oh," repeated Ruth.
"Much better mood," said Berry firmly.
Ruth shook her head. "Yeah, sure, but . . . Damnation, we have got to start making plans."
Ginny was now giving them a quizzical look. "Plans for what?" She held up her hand. "Never mind. I can figure out the gist of it. Victor Cachat lunacy. That being the case, why wait for the madman? I'm sure the two of you can make up a crazy scheme all on your own."
Ruth and Berry peered at her. Ginny's grin was back.
"Try Grand Suite Sutter's Mill 57," she suggested. "Two floors down. That's where most of Thandi's wrecking crew is spending the night. They could probably serve you as a sounding board. And if they can't, I'm sure the Ballroom maniacs could. By now, I suspect most of them are there too."
Ruth lunged to her feet. "Great idea!"
Berry rose also, but was less sanguine. "Uh. Uh."
"Oh, don't worry about it," said Ginny. "That's a huge interconnected suite, with a central salon about the size of a tennis court. Most of the actual orgying will be taking place in the bedrooms. I'm sure you can find somebody who'll talk to you."
Berry was less sanguine than ever. "Uh . . ."
But Ruth had her by the collar and was marching her down the corridor. "Don't be a prude," she said firmly. "They have orgies all the time in Mount Royal Palace."
Berry gaped at her.
"Well." Ruth's face was firmly set, in the way a youngster's will when she's making pronouncements about subjects she knows absolutely nothing about. "Not my aunt, of course. But I'm sure the servants do."
* * *
"Not like this, I bet," chortled Berry under her breath, after one of Thandi's Amazons let them into the suite. Yana, that was. The two girls were following the woman into the central salon, doing their best to ignore the fact that she was nude and seemed utterly oblivious about it.
"Someone to see you," Yana said lazily, to the two people sprawled on a couch. "I assume it's you they need to talk to, anyway. Sure as hell isn't me, since by now Donald ought to have his energy back."
Yana headed for a nearby door, smiling. It was an odd sort of smile, combining ease with anticipation. As she opened the door and slipped through into the room beyond, Berry caught a glimpse of a large man raising his head from a pillow. She had to stifle a cackle. The man's expression was priceless. Anticipation combined with . . . something not too far from sheer terror.
"What's up, girls?" asked the woman on the couch. That was Lara, also nude, and more or less draped over another man. Berry wasn't sure, but she thought that was the one known as Saburo X. He was wearing exactly as much in the way of clothing as Lara, but seemed much less insouciant about it all.
Berry was at a loss for words. Fortunately—or otherwise—Ruth wasn't. Although Berry noticed that the princess kept her eyes firmly fixed on the opposite wall as she rattled off the nature of their mission.
When she was finished, Lara lifted her head and looked up at Saburo. "You want to deal with this, or not?"
Berry suspected the man was sardonic by nature. His smile on this occasion certainly was.
"Amazing. You're actually asking me something?"
Lara grinned. "What are you complaining about? Just think how much scheming and plotting I saved you."
"True enough." Saburo ran a hand over his close-cropped
hair. Then, spoke very softly, in words which Berry overheard but were obviously addressed to Lara alone. "I'm not sure this is going to work, but . . . if it does, it'll be because we give each other plenty of room. Agreed?"
Lara's answer amounted to a purr, accompanied by an affectionate stroke along Saburo's thigh. "Sub-human or not, I could really get used to you. Yes. It's agreed."
She rose quickly and padded over toward another door. "We'd better get dressed, then. You want that crap you had on, or will you settle for one of the resort's luxury robes?"
"Robe'll do." Saburo turned his face toward Berry and Ruth. "Give us a moment, will you? Lara could probably manage it—being a superwoman and all—but I'm just not up for first-class plotting and scheming in the raw."
"No problem," stated Ruth firmly. Berry didn't think the little squeak in her voice detracted much from the dignity of the moment.
She herself said nothing. She felt silence would be sufficient. After all, she wasn't the member of a royal house perched in the middle of a wild orgy between sub-human terrorists and maniacal superwomen. She was just—
"Daddy's gonna kill me," she hissed. "I'm dead. Dead-dead-dead."
"He'll never find out," Ruth whispered back.
"Yes, he will. Anton Zilwicki finds out everything."
* * *
"That should do it," Lieutenant Commander Watanapongse said. The Solarian naval officer leaned back in his chair in the space station's central com room and glanced up at Walter Imbesi. "It's your call, of course."
Imbesi stared at him for a moment; then, for a longer moment, stared at the control panel. He was tempted to ask—very tempted—how it was that Watanapongse had enough of Abraham Templeton's voice recorded to have put together the message he had. In less than two hours after arriving at The Wages of Sin.
For that matter, Imbesi was tempted to ask how Watanapongse had managed that, as well. Just about the only way the lieutenant commander could have gotten to the space station that quickly was if he'd been standing by a shuttle down in Maytag.
Walter suspected that he had been, in fact. But . . .