“Only those with swords,” Ransome said. “Much more fun than the others—”
“—and one day when our teachers arrived, he and Des and Hal were on the main stairs, whaling away at each other—”
St. Cyrien started laughing so hard he could barely talk. Baskerville stepped in to finish the story.
“They were afraid the blood was real,” he said. “We didn’t use actual sharps; our mothers would’ve killed us. And we aren’t stupid. So we’d fixed little squirt bottles of red stuff—food coloring, wasn’t it?—on the ends of the blades, so when you made contact it pushed some out. It didn’t really look that much like blood, but it was red…”
“It was just a lark,” Ransome said. “But we all got detention for it. I had to read some moldering old lecture about the evils of violence and the dangers of glorifying war…not that it had any effect…”
Ky glanced at her captains; they both had the expressions of men caught between horror and amusement, and determined not to show it.
“Not that we think war is good, you understand,” St. Cyrien said. “I mean, everyone knows it’s bad, and people die and so on. But it’s been around for thousands of years, and it’s not going away. Might as well be on the side of truth and justice and all that, and go at it with flair, don’t you think?”
“Flair is nice. Skill and training are even better,” Ky said.
“See?” Ransome said, throwing out his hands to the others. “A lady of intelligence and character as well as beauty.” He beamed at her. “We’re going to get along splendidly, I can tell. You will be the steadying influence—women always are—and I will be—”
“See here,” Pettygrew said suddenly. “Are you serious about anything?”
Ransome’s handsome face contracted in an obviously intentional scowl. “I am perfectly serious, sir—Captain Pettygrew—about opposing the scoundrels who now threaten civilization. I am prepared to give my life’s blood, if necessary—though I quite agree with Captain Vatta that we would prefer the pirates to die instead of ourselves. No one can be more serious than that.”
“How old are you?” asked Captain Argelos. “And how long do you propose to stick with this war? And what does your family think?”
Ransome waved one hand. “My family? They’re all quite mad—”
“I can believe that,” Pettygrew muttered under his breath.
“They’re in the fourth year of their cycle, and you know how that is—or maybe you don’t play evolving rings here?”
“Never heard of ’em,” Argelos said.
“Oh. Well. They’ve given up cause and effect for the time being—they’re being Irrationalists…that’s intentional Irrationalism, not accidental.”
“Doesn’t this cause…er…problems?”
“Oh, but that’s the point, you see. It’s part of the doctrine of oppositional intellects. Just as with muscles, where one contracts while another relaxes and stretches, so in our culture we exercise one intellect at a time. In the Irrationalist phase, people are legally mad—Irrationalism is insane, you know—and they all have to wear labels to warn everyone else.”
“This is all fascinating,” Argelos said. “But what I wanted to know was, what does your family think of your spending the family fortune fitting out ships and going off to war?”
“It isn’t the family fortune; it’s mine,” Ransome said. “Settled on me when I reached majority. And as for the other—they don’t think. They are absent from thinking in this phase. I imagine if they transition to Reason while I’m gone, they’ll be upset, but since no one can predict how long their Irrationalist phase will last, I don’t worry about it.”
“It runs in the family,” Pettygrew muttered.
“Tell me,” Ky said. “Is one of these phases Romanticism?”
“Of course. I’ve only been a Romantic for two years now, but I can’t imagine being anything else.”
Dead hovered on the tip of Ky’s tongue, but she managed to not say it.
When they were alone again, Argelos shook his head. “I thought you were a loose cannon when we first met,” he said to Ky. “I apologize. I’ve now seen the real thing, and you are a model of discretion and prudence.”
Ky laughed. “He’s not that bad.”
Argelos narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me you find him attractive?”
“Decorative, merely,” Ky said. “But there’s always been a place in war for the decorative enthusiasts.”
“Cannon fodder,” Argelos said. “That’s their place. And your senior crew would tell you the same. Send them to charge the barricades like the fools they are.”
“You’re in a mood,” Ky said. “Let’s talk plans then. How can we use cannon fodder?”
“Why would we even want to? We aren’t fighting that kind of war.”
“Support is support. Why wouldn’t we want them? They’d be useful as couriers, as scouts—”
“They stick out like supernovas,” Pettygrew said.
“So? Who’s going to suspect that people in gaudy ships with gaudy uniforms are actually connected to a serious military force? Let them stick out. Let them swagger about, show off, all the rest of it. It will divert attention from the rest of us.”
“As long as you’re not just falling for the shiny prince-figurine—” Argelos said.
“Oh, for—no, I am not ‘falling for’ him or any of them.”
“He is handsome…and you’re…uh…of an age—” said Pettygrew, with a glance at Argelos.
“If you say the word ‘hormones’—” Ky said. She was furiously angry and moved to laugh at the same time. It was just too ridiculous.
“I didn’t. I didn’t. It’s just—” Pettygrew spread his hands.
“I don’t believe this. Just because you’re both older, and I’m a young female, you think I’m going to lose my judgment—” She walked on a few paces, trying to regain her equanimity. “It would serve you right if I did fall head over heels for him. And it might make him easier to manage if he thought I had—”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Pettygrew sounded shocked.
“Well, thank you for that, anyway. But let me tell you—” She rounded on both of them. “—I would rather do that than act like a silly schoolgirl faced with a storybook prince. Pretending romance is at least a calculated tactic; the real thing is…is stupid.”
She whirled and stalked off; the memory of Hal’s betrayal rose in her memory like bile. She had done that once: fallen in love with someone as handsome as Ransome, fallen in love with the whole idea of romance, of two hearts beating as one, two lives lived for each other. Not again. Not ever again…and she wasn’t going to tell them why, either.
But she would work with Ransome because right now he had ships she needed, and money she needed, and his aims and hers ran side by side.
She came aboard Vanguard in a black mood, not helped by the concerned expressions Hugh and Martin wore when she got to the bridge.
“Don’t say a thing,” she said. “I can read it on your faces—you think I’m impressed by a pretty face and shiny braid.”
“I—”
“No. I just got that from Argelos and Pettygrew. It’s not true. I have no interest in Captain Ransome because of his face or his uniform. My interest is military and practical: he has ships we could use, and money we need. We will work with him because we need him, and he, of course, needs us. He can’t fight a war with those little ships; he needs to ally with a force that has real muscle.”
“We just worried—” Martin began.
Ky rolled her eyes, and he stopped. “I am not a silly schoolgirl. I am not going to go breathless over every handsome face that comes along…and if I were, I’d already have fallen for a lot of men on this ship. You’re not the ugliest bunch in the universe.”
That got their attention; they both looked startled and then slightly ashamed.
“Now,” she said. “Let’s think how to use Ransome’s Rangers to our best advantage.
I’m thinking couriers and scouts. They’re so flamboyant, it’s a kind of disguise; I’m sure others will see them as we did—rich playboys playing at war. If they connect us, they’ll probably think what you did—that I’ve let my hormones influence my decisions. And though I think they are rich playboys, I also think they are more than that.”
“All right,” Hugh said. “But can you trust them to follow orders?”
“Probably not,” Ky said. “But I don’t think it matters. If they’re loose cannons, they’re still a distraction to the enemy.”
“And they’ll get killed…”
“Yes, they’ll probably get killed and die convinced they’re achieving undying glory. That’s their problem. If they don’t follow orders, I’m not going to worry about their survival rate.” Ky cocked her head. “So can you quit worrying about the romantic streak I don’t have, and waste no more time on it? We have more important things to worry about.”
“I suppose we’d better,” Hugh said. Martin still looked shocked, but Hugh grinned at her. “I’m glad to find that my concerns were unwarranted, Captain, and I’m sorry to have doubted your maturity or judgment for even a moment.”
“Don’t go overboard,” Ky said, grinning back, “or I’ll begin to wonder about your sincerity. Now. Captain Ransome made an offer, before the other captains came, to help us with supplies. I realize this puts us in his debt, but we need more munitions. Adelaide Group’s not known as a big munitions dealer, but I’ve been poking around. They do have twelve hundred older SS-V-87s, which we could upgrade using components they stock in another department.”
“Twelve hundred! And what will that cost?”
“Well below what Gretna would have charged. I think I can get Teddy to buy them—and yes, I may call him Teddy if that gets the job done, and you will just have to bear it.”
“For twelve hundred missiles and the components to upgrade, I can bear a lot,” Hugh said with a smile.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Slotter Key
The new Sub-Rector for Defense, Grace Lane Vatta, climbed out of the official car that had appeared for her precisely at six forty-two, marching up the five steps to the entrance of the Annex and through the tall door that was opened for her. Turn right, MacRobert had said, and go to the left-most security booth.
As if she had been doing it for years, she placed her right palm on the plate and looked into the scanner. The tiny flash hardly registered. A voice said, “Both hands on the plate…,” then trailed away; she turned and gave the sentry a frosty glance. He was already red-faced, staring at her arm-bud in its casing.
“Anything else?” Grace Lane Vatta asked.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. His forehead glistened. “It’s just we’re supposed to…” He opened the little wicket and let her through. “Third elevator, ma’am. Fifth floor.”
She nodded without saying anything and walked through. She knew which elevator, which floor, which door. The other two elevators, she saw as she neared them, had plain metal doors. Hers had the Rectory seal on an outer grille. She slid her keycard through the slot; the grille swung out, blocking anyone else’s passage, and the doors opened. Inside, the elevator was carpeted, walls as well as the floor. The rear wall also displayed the Rectory seal.
Her shoes sank into the carpet—ridiculous, she thought, and the former occupant of her office deserved his demotion. Five floors up, the hall to her office was also carpeted. A uniformed guard—some militia unit, she didn’t yet know which—stood by her door. He saluted as she approached and flung open her door with a flourish.
“Sub-Rector Vatta!”
Through the open door, she saw five people lined up waiting. “Good morning,” she said, walking through, giving a slight nod to the guard at the door. The five before her, three women and two men, were staff inherited from the former Sub-Rector. From their expressions, the carefully blank faces shown to those in authority, they expected to be fired. Some of them, no doubt, would be. Some of them, no doubt, deserved to be. It was her responsibility to be sure that the second group and the first group were the same. All who survived the winnowing would be working for someone else; she didn’t want anyone contaminated by the former Sub-Rector on her own staff. MacRobert’s dossiers on them had not revealed useful clues.
“We’ll meet in the conference room,” she said now, turning to the left. The most junior, Esmaila Turnin, scrambled to get to the door before her and open it. Les Vaughn, the most senior, held the others back until she was through, then led them in as they arranged themselves around the polished tik-wood table. Grace took the end seat, settling into the blue leather. Too soft, and the chair sagged back as if expecting her to lounge in it as Selwin had done. Selwin wasn’t lounging now; the bastard was awaiting execution, and there was no chair in death row cells.
Her assistants stood behind their chairs, waiting. Grace let them wait a moment, then nodded. “Be seated. We have work to do.”
Vaughn had brought in a portfolio and started to open it. Grace held up her hand. “Just a moment. I have seen your dossiers, of course, but I would like to speak with each of you before we begin the day’s work.”
“Certainly,” Vaughn said. He opened his mouth to say more; Grace stopped that with a look.
“Your former boss is on death row,” Grace said. Their faces stiffened; that had not yet been released to the press. “You must realize that you, too, are being investigated thoroughly. Such a person—” She put an emphasis on person that denied everything but a genetic connection to humanity. “—such a person will not have worked alone. If you were assisting him in his treason, you will be exposed and tried, do not doubt it. If, on the other hand, you are innocent of any wrongdoing, you should have no concern for your employment.”
“Surely you don’t think—” That was Armand Politsier, at the far left end of the table. His face had an unhealthy sheen.
“I am not in charge of that investigation,” Grace said. “What I think is of no importance to you; what you—any of you—did is all that matters. I believe the new chief of security is quite able to find out without my assistance.” The new chief of security, now relieved, perhaps permanently, from his duties at Spaceforce Academy, was happy as a terrier down a rathole.
“Yes…ma’ am…,” Politsier said. Grace looked at him with distaste. Innocent or guilty—and she would wager a considerable sum on his guilt—he was not a man she would choose to work with.
“Today I will review the current items and my predecessor’s minutes on them. I am lunching with the Rector and the President at one; I will require a five-minute warning before it’s time to leave, if I become distracted.” She would not become distracted, but she could feign distraction and see what happened.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vaughn said. “In here, or—”
“In my office,” Grace said. Rising from the deeply cushioned chair was awkward, but she made it up without lurching to one side, and the others scrambled out of their seats.
Her private office had windows on two sides, looking out on the perfectly groomed lawns and flowering trees of Government Place. Her desk placed her badly, her back to a window, but this was not a time to show fear of assassination.
Behind her desk was another lushly padded leather chair, this one even more tippy than the one in the conference room. Had Selwin spent all his time reclined and snoozing, perhaps with his feet on this desk with its leather-padded edge? The desk was still arranged as he had left it, functions laid out for the use of both hands. She would have to reprogram it…but first, she found the icon for the chair. Indeed, it was set to FULL RELAX; she tapped the panel until it read FULL UPRIGHT and leaned back cautiously. It held still.
By the time she had the desktop reset, collapsing functions so all could be accessed by her right hand, Vaughn was tapping at her door. He delivered a stack of hardcopy. “The most current items are on top, Sub-Rector,” he said. “I wasn’t sure how far back—”
“I’m n
ot, either,” Grace said. “Selwin appears to have been taking bribes from someone at least two years ago—so I’ve been informed.” Not least by Selwin himself, sweating and shaking in the combined grip of the interrogation drugs and his own fear. But her office staff did not need to know how she knew. “I don’t have time to review all that at the moment; the Rector tells me we have other, more immediate crises. But I must know what Selwin was doing in the past half year.”
“These cover only the past four weeks,” Vaughn said.
“I’ll get started, then,” Grace said. “Hold any calls; I’ll check with you before lunch.” She glanced at the top memo.
“Should I bring water or…or anything?” Vaughn asked.
“No, I’m fine,” Grace said, not lifting her gaze from the papers. “I’ll call if I need anything.”
She could imagine what he thought as he quietly shut the door behind him: Silly old woman, appointed here because the new President knew he had to placate the Vatta family. Probably didn’t have a clue. Her reputation was decades behind her, unless he’d accessed certain files. She trusted MacRobert to find out if he had done that, in which case…well, to work.
By midday, she had cleared the first stack of paperwork and asked for the next. Selwin might have been up to mischief earlier, but the most recent actions seemed to be more about setting up lunch, dinner, and weekend dates with various friends in the department or in other branches of government. Any wrongdoing would have taken place at those meetings—and the surveillance of those meetings was someone else’s to analyze.
At quarter to one, she came out into the reception area. Vaughn looked up from his desk and stood immediately. A door was open to another room beyond, where Grace could see two women at desks. The third, she supposed, was taking an early lunch or off on an errand somewhere.
“Sub-Rector…I didn’t know whether to interrupt you, but Security took Armand…uh, Armand Politsier…away a few minutes ago. To help with their inquiries, they said.”
She would have to install her own equipment, somehow; she would have liked to watch that. “That’s…most unfortunate for him,” she said. “One hopes he has not done anything rash.”
Command Decision Page 17
