With the Lightnings (48 page)

The Kostromans themselves had felt otherwise when they saw that Alliance personnel were suddenly at their mercy. Assassination was a staple of local culture; mercy toward one's enemies was not. From the reports Adele listened to in the control node, it seemed that folk wearing Zojira colors had been the quickest to turn on their former allies. They may have hoped their neighbors would forget what they'd been doing a few weeks before.

"I was part of a group," Adele said. "A group I'm very proud to have been a member of. And I've helped put the defensive array in shape, so now I'd like to be returned to the ground."

The technicians from the Cinnabar squadron were skilled, but they didn't know the Alliance system in detail and they didn't have Adele's ability to chart paths through the unfamiliar. She and the four programmers from Willoughby—volunteers, now that they'd been freed—remained in charge of the Alliance command node until the systems were fully merged: integrated to the standards of Adele Mundy.

"You're far too modest," Elphinstone said with a chuckle that made Adele think of a stream of oil. "Fortunately, you have friends to advertise your merits, so to speak. Otherwise—"

There was no change in his voice, but his hard, brown eyes glittered.

"—there'd be some problems with your background."

"My understanding," Adele said in a voice that was perfectly distinct and as flat as if synthesized, "was that an Edict of Reconciliation was passed nine years ago to reintegrate survivors of the Three Circles Conspiracy into Cinnabar society."

There was no point in pretending she didn't know what this
toad
was talking about. She'd known it was going to be this as soon as she'd entered his office.

The deck shifted as the
Rene Descartes
changed tack so that the constant thrust didn't send them out of the system. Adele felt the fluid in her inner ears spin queasily, though "down" remained the same direction.

A month ago she would have wanted to be sick. Now her mind was too busy thinking about where to place the pellet in the body of the man across the desk, and that was worse.

"As I say," Elphinstone said, "you have friends. Admiral Ingreit will use all his influence to clear up any remaining disabilities. And I—"

He laughed unctuously, a polite sound that Adele couldn't help contrasting with Daniel Leary's honest bellows.

"—know some people myself, you see." Elphinstone tented his hands and went on, "As a formality, though, we'd like you to sign a report showing that you were operating here under Admiral Ingreit's direction. This won't detract any from the credit you're due, I assure you."

Adele leaned back in her seat. Daniel might actually think this was funny. "What about Lieutenant Leary?" she asked.

"Ah, yes, Lieutenant Leary," Elphinstone said. "Yes, that's an interesting situation. There've already been questions asked in high places about how he managed to survive when all his superiors were killed in the fighting."

"They were executed in the Grand Salon of the Elector's Palace," Adele said in the voice she'd used ever since she entered this room, this
den
. "They were each shot once in the head except for the man who claimed to be from the Navy Office. I believe he was actually a spy. He was shot twice because he was twisting on the floor."

Elphinstone blinked. Adele wasn't sure whether it was her words or their implications that had taken him aback. After a moment he said, "Yes, I see. Ah."

He cleared his throat and continued in a colder tone that was probably the one he found natural, "You see, mistress, Lieutenant Leary is a headstrong young man who would cause a great deal of trouble for himself and others if he were allowed to. That's why it's important that your account of events be put on record as soon as possible. Admiral Ingreit is very insistent on that point."

Adele stood. "I don't think the admiral would like my account," she said. "It would be accurate. Now that we've had our conversation, can you direct me to the person who can get me to the ground? I don't like the atmosphere on this ship."

"Sit down, Ms. Mundy," Elphinstone snapped. "I don't think you quite understand. There were exceptions to the Edict of Reconciliation and I'm very much afraid your name will turn out to be one of them unless you see reason. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Adele had started to reach for the door. She turned, thinking of what Hogg had said about intelligence agents. She smiled faintly.

Elphinstone got up and walked around the desk to face her. There was a wary look in his eyes, but his expression was as bland as a data console.

"Either you help people who want to be your friends," he said, "or you're executed as a traitor to the state. You really have no choice."

Adele opened the door—the hatch, she supposed she should call it on shipboard. Subordinates looked up from consoles, then quickly looked down again.

"Are you telling me that a citizen of Cinnabar has no choice, Mr. Elphinstone?" Adele said loudly enough to be heard far down the corridor. "Are you saying that a Mundy of Chatsworth has no choice?"

She slapped the startled man with her right hand. "This is my choice!" she said. Her fingers stung as though she'd laid them on a hot stove. Four discrete marks blazed red on Elphinstone's cheek. "I can be contacted at the library in the Elector's Palace—
if
you can find a person of breeding to act for you in a matter of honor!"

Adele strode through the outer office. No one spoke or tried to stop her. She turned right for no reason except that there were only two possibilities and she was too angry to attempt a rational choice.

She kept walking. She had no destination, but the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream had to be burned off somehow. Fight or flight . . .

"Mistress?" said a familiar voice. "Mistress Mundy?"

For the many minutes since she left Elphinstone's office, Adele's eyes had operated solely to keep her from walking into objects. She saw people and bulkheads with the same lack of distinction.

Her eyes and mind locked back into focus. She entered a large room with hatches along one wall—a docking bay like the one by which she'd arrived on the
Rene Descartes
. A number of sailors stood in groups, waiting for officers to return.

Woetjans had called to her. Barnes, Dasi, and a third
Aglaia
sailor whose name Adele didn't know were with the petty officer.

"Have you been keeping well, mistress?" Woetjans asked. "We heard you were working on the minefield still."

"I'm not all right now," Adele said. Her face hardened. "Can you take me to Kostroma City? I need . . ."

She paused. If the interview with Elphinstone had cost her the ability to speak precisely, then she'd lost more than her life.

She smiled. "I very much
want
to get off this ship," she said.

The petty officer had no readable expression for a moment. Then she said, "Yeah, sure."

She gestured her three subordinates toward the nearest hatch. "Saddle up," she said. "With luck we'll be back before the quartermaster wants to leave."

"He's going to be really pissed if we're not," said the sailor Adele didn't know by name.

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?"