“Power’s iffy there,” the senior scan tech said.
“So I see,” Ky said. “Two down, one—” but the third escort accelerated away from Bloodblade and jumped abruptly, just escaping a fusillade from another of the Moray cruisers, Mameluke.
“Now,” Ky said to her flag captain. “Now we attack. The rest of you, give us the first shot then join in.”
Vanguard II launched its remaining missiles, then the beam stabbed out, first sparkling on Bloodblade’s shields, then flaring them. Ky punched in to transmit on Turek’s own channel, using visual at her end.
“You haven’t won,” she said. “You’re dead; I’m alive. Slotter Key is alive. Vatta is alive and we will remember you only as an unpleasant interlude in our long and very successful history.”
“You—” A burst of what must be profanity in his native language; the visual from him was blurry and flickering. Then it blanked.
“It’s blown! It’s gone! Turek’s gone!” came from several stations in the CCC. Cheers rang through Vanguard II’s CCC, and Ky knew they were being echoed throughout the ship, in other ships. She felt a visceral surge of glee, almost as powerful as when she had killed Osman. She had done it. She had avenged her family; she had saved many others.
Ky’s moment of jubilation faded over the next hours as exhaustion rolled back over her and the damage Turek had inflicted became clear. Ships had blown or taken damage; crew had died or suffered injury. The death toll on ansible platforms, on Nexus II’s ruined main orbital station, continued to rise as search and rescue teams went to work. And they had not destroyed every one of the enemy. They might have fled in disorder, but they’d fled in whole ships, with weapons and ansibles. Bissonet and other systems were still—as far as anyone knew—in enemy hands. She knew she had to let her people celebrate, but she also had to get them thinking about the future.
But not now. Now she could rest for a while, knowing what she had accomplished, knowing she had earned the rank she now held. Admiral Vatta signed out of the CCC and made her way back to her quarters through the passages lined with applauding crew.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
T he formal celebration of victory came later, when the last of the enemy had been scoured from the system, when five of the six ansible platforms were back in service and the sixth was being rebuilt. Nexus’ government had allied with the other governments, but Nexus no longer centered human space in the minds of most, for even ISC formally agreed its monopoly on ansible communication was broken. The Space Defense Force had the support of nearly all governments from Lastway to Sybilla, four systems hubward from Moray. Bissonet was already free, its ansible back in operation; without Turek’s influence, his associates had fled with what wealth they could. Only the anti-humod worlds refused to join.
Now the main celebration, on Cascadia in the Moscoe Confederation, would be mirrored elsewhere—victory parades, speeches, award ceremonies, dinners. Rafe, leaving Penny behind on Nexus, had come to Cascadia to take part in the negotiations that would determine ISC’s place in the new order. And tonight was the opportunity he had most wanted—a grand reception in honor of Ky Vatta and all the militaries that had combined in what was now known as the Battle of Nexus.
Rafe went down to the car in a mood he himself knew was dangerous. The reception honoring Admiral Vatta and the forces under her command was no place for intimate conversation; if he saw Ky and shook her hand, it would be the most he could hope for—in that direction. In another direction, the evening promised to afford him an opportunity to indulge himself as he had not done for far too long, something even better than killing Zennarthos. Someone richly deserved a hiding and someone—his thoughts halted abruptly, as he saw who was in the car, waiting.
“You’re up to something,” Gary said. “And it’s not good. I’m assigning myself as your bodyguard at the reception tonight.”
“You’re not,” Rafe said. “You quit, remember?”
“I haven’t left yet,” Gary said. He signaled the driver, and they set off for Government House. “Consider this my last night of duty. If you behave yourself, I’ll be on the flight home tomorrow. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint my wife; she’s expecting me for Hannah’s birthday party.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard inside with me,” Rafe said. He didn’t want anyone inside with him, not for this event. He checked his appearance in the mirror on the front of the passenger compartment: the formal shirt with its elaborate silk tie, the formal coat with its wider satin lapels and gold buttons, the silk vest, the right pale gray gloves, shoes polished to perfection. Under it he wore light armor, as always, but the clothes were tailored to conceal that. “It’s a reception, for pity’s sake. Military personnel, government—”
“Snakes, most of them,” Gary said. “And you’re wearing your protection, aren’t you?”
“Of course; I feel naked without it. But they’re not going to attack the head of ISC in front of everyone while swilling champagne, raiding the buffet, and bragging about their exploits.” Rafe put on his most beguiling smile and beamed at Gary. “No problems, and no reason for you to accompany me at all, let alone inside. And I didn’t put in for a badge for you, in any case.”
“But you’re up to something and you want to cause trouble. Don’t bother to lie, sonny; I can read you like a book.” This, Rafe knew, was unfortunately true. “The war’s over; the company’s crawling back into the black; I hear from my sources that the Board is now in the palm of your hand. But you’re lit up like a marker beacon. Is it something your lady would approve of?”
The car slowed to a crawl, behind others making their way up the driveway of Government House.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rafe said. He knew Gary wasn’t fooled. “But I’m not going to appear so fearful that I need a bodyguard in there—” He tipped his head toward the entrance. “You’ve had your chance to put in surveillance equipment; that will have to do.”
“Boyo, I don’t know what it is, but you’re in a killing mood and I’m not the only one who will read it that way. Whatever it is, don’t do it.”
Rafe allowed himself to subside into his ISC identity, all civilian CEO and business. “I am in the mood to celebrate a victory. The champagne is in there, and I am out here.”
Gary eyed him. “You may fool eighty percent of them, but you won’t fool them all. Where should I station the reserves, for when the blood starts flying?”
Rafe smiled. “There will be no blood.” And then, as Gary continued to give him the same challenging look, “There is more than one way to kill.”
“Money, family, or that woman?”
Rafe shook his head. Gary touched his, in a brief salute. “She is worth it, I will say that,” Gary said, before taking his station in the foyer of the ballrooms.
Rafe presented his ID and invitation to the liveried servants at the door—guards, he noted, and armed as well as decorative—and went into the first of the linked rooms. He passed through the receiving line, polite handshakes, nods, murmurs of conventional courtesy. Ky’s smile seemed genuine; he bent to kiss her hand and she flushed a little, but as he’d expected they had no time for more as the line behind him stretched to the door and beyond. Good. She should be stuck there long enough; with any luck he’d be able to complete his other mission and get back to her before she had reason to wonder where he was.
Somewhere in this crowd, Rafe knew, he would find the Slotter Key junior officer he most wanted to find. With consummate skill, he had extracted the crew list from each Slotter Key ship as it arrived…and on one, he had seen the name. Hal Coughlin, once a classmate of Ky’s, now a sub-lieutenant on Bailey’s Reef. That Hal. He’d obtained an image of the man’s face by means circuitous even for him and it was now in his implant, easy to compare with every face he saw.
He was sure that Ky would not approve of what he intended, which meant he could not ask openly about the man: someone would be certain to tell
her anything the head of ISC seemed to find of interest. On his search, he spoke politely to admirals and colonels and ship captains by the dozen, nodded politely to others from Nexus, Cascadia, Moray, Sabine, Slotter Key. The rooms were large, crowded, and interconnected so that the crowd could circulate…new arrivals coming in by one entrance, wandering past the cluster of dignitaries and most senior military to the long tables loaded with food and drink, and then on to the other two ballrooms.
Junior officers, he suspected, would hang around the serving tables and then find corners where they could talk without being overheard by their seniors. Hal might be the kind of suck-up toady who’d stick near his boss, but Rafe had eyed the name tag of every such youngster he’d seen near a senior rank and hadn’t found him.
In the first corner he investigated, he found Teddy Ransome holding court for an admiring throng of juniors from Cascadia. Rafe eyed the dashing Teddy without enthusiasm; he would like to have despised him for being all flash, but Ransome had performed well. The next looked more promising, an almost solid phalanx of Slotter Key Spaceforce uniforms.
Rafe paused a safe distance away, pretending to sip his drink while looking for the face matching the image in his implant. But it was not until he spotted a young officer edging along the wall, clearly making for the exit, that he found him.
Years of experience moved Rafe through the crowd faster than the young man; he caught up with him in the least crowded room near the exit.
“You’re Hal Coughlin, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” He was tall, square-jawed, conventionally good looking, the sort Rafe categorized as “a young girl’s fantasy prince.” Much like Teddy Ransome, for that matter, though dark-haired. Rafe himself had been good looking, had even played on such fantasies—something he abhorred now—but he had no tolerance for it in other young men. Especially not in young men who had mistreated Ky. The young man smiled, a little tentatively. “You’re—you’re Ser Dunbarger, head of ISC, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, yes,” Rafe smiled. The young man didn’t flinch, which meant he was projecting what he meant to: older man-of-the-world politely interested in a younger one. “You’re from Slotter Key, are you not? I believe I am right in recognizing that uniform?”
“Yes, sir.” Hal straightened slightly, the young officer aware of his duty to make a good impression for his service.
“Good,” Rafe said. “I had heard that you knew Admiral Vatta back on Slotter Key…”
Hal flushed. “Well…we were at Spaceforce Academy at the same time, but I can’t say we…er…knew each other.”
“Oh.” Rafe let Elder Authority weight his tone; Hal’s color faded a little. Rafe cocked his head. “Really. I find that interesting, since she certainly told me about you.” A lie, but this young lout wouldn’t realize that. “In fact, I understand that you were in the same class—”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And exchanged class rings. Unless, of course, you wish to accuse Admiral Vatta of lying—”
Hal’s eyes wavered back and forth, but no escape route appeared. Behind him, one or two uniformed men had slowed, paused, to see what was going on. Rafe let himself smile his most dangerous smile, and Hal stepped back a half pace. “Er…no,” Hal said. “No, she’s not lying, it’s just that…that…we were very young then.”
“And you, my boy, are very young still,” Rafe said, still smiling. He pitched his voice to carry to the men behind Hal. “It never occurred to you, did it, that she might be your commanding officer someday? When you sent that rather…how shall I put it?…disgusting missive discarding her like soiled tissue?”
“I—I didn’t mean it that way,” Hal said. Rafe watched the pulse now pounding in Hal’s throat, the sheen of moisture on his brow, with clinical interest. Beyond Hal, more men and women had slowed to listen.
“Really,” Rafe said. He dropped his gaze to his fingernails, as if fascinated by them. Beyond, though out of focus, he could see the tremor of Hal’s trouser leg. It pleased him; he let his voice go silky but he knew it would carry. “The phrase deliberate attempt to sabotage not only my career but the honor of the service was not intended to be just a wee bit negative?”
“Well, I mean, I had to kind of…you know…distance myself…after she got in such trouble.”
Rafe looked up and pinned Hal’s wavering glance with his own steady gaze. “You had to cover your cowardly ass, you mean? You had to lick the right boots, kiss the right cheeks until your nose was brown to your earlobes? Because the woman you claimed to love—oh, yes, I know about that—had her confidence abused by a politically motivated slimeball, you had to abuse her yourself, insulting her motives, defacing her Academy ring? Just to make sure everyone knew how pure and innocent you were?” With every phrase, the silence around them spread, so that Rafe didn’t need to raise his voice. He could see the shock, and then disgust, on the faces of those eavesdropping.
Hal was white now, shaking with what Rafe hoped was rage enough to inspire an aggressive move. Just one. Just one little twitch, to give an excuse for the fist that itched to smash Hal’s nose, the arm that wanted to flash out in that blow, the eyes that wanted to see that spurt of blood.
“I—I didn’t know,” Hal said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t expect—I mean—it was just—”
It was the white of fear, not rage, the tremor of near panic, not impending attack. Rafe felt the first shading of pity, and resisted it. He didn’t want to pity this coward; he wanted to rip Hal to shreds for what he had done to Ky.
He looked Hal up and down, hoping his expression held all the contempt he felt. “You,” he said, “did not deserve her friendship. You are not fit for anyone’s friendship. You are not fit to hold a commission…you lack the fundamental qualities—courage, integrity, decency, loyalty—that friendship demands.”
Now Hal flushed again, slightly, and glanced around, as if for support…but the faces staring at him were all closed. Some, Rafe assumed, were just like Hal himself, willing to condemn anyone condemned by the powerful—and he himself, as the known head of ISC, was more powerful than most. Others might actually agree, might actually grasp that Hal had done something wrong. Rafe didn’t really care.
“There you are!” Behind Hal, the crowd parted now, shuffling quickly away from the one person Rafe did not want to have witness what he was about. Ky, grinning widely, swept toward him, flanked by two of her aides. Hal turned brick red, and started to step aside, but it was too late. She was abreast of him now, looking at Rafe. “Rafe, you know the Premier wanted to meet you—why didn’t you stay in the main ballroom? You’ll have to come back inside—”
And then she glanced, as anyone might, at the person beside her, and he saw recognition on her face, and the instant control that changed her expression to the cool, guarded gaze of the professional commander.
“As you see,” Rafe said, “I have been having a little chat with Sub-lieutenant Coughlin.”
“How interesting,” she said in a colorless voice.
“But I would be delighted to come meet the Premier,” Rafe said. “I’m sure the sub-lieutenant will excuse us.”
“Ky, I—” Hal began. Rafe subtracted another hundred points from the man’s estimated intelligence.
Ky turned and faced him directly. “You had something to say, Sub-lieutenant?” Her voice remained perfectly steady, perfectly cool, admiral–to–sub-lieutenant.
“Er…no, ma’am. Just…I’m sorry…”
“It is of no consequence,” Ky said, each word uttered like a flake off a flint core. She looked back at Rafe, her eyes now as hard as that core. “If you please, Ser Dunbarger. The Premier is waiting.”
Rafe bowed slightly. “Of course, Admiral. At your service.” He brushed past Hal without saying anything more; she had already turned on her heel and started back to the ballrooms without looking back. The crowd melted before them, silent until they had passed, when a rising murmur suggested what they discussed.
“I will smack Stella silly,” Ky said once they were inside. “I can’t believe you would have rifled my desk.”
“Stella,” Rafe said with some care, “warned me off you, for your own good.”
“She had no right,” Ky said. She shot a glance back at him, and he saw, not surprised, that she was angry with him, as well as with Stella. “And you—you had no right to parade my—that—here—”
“I wanted him dead,” Rafe said. “He hurt you.”
“I’m over it.”
“Oh, really.” Rafe touched her arm and she swung around; her aides stiffened and closed in, ready, he saw, to take him down. “That’s not what Stella thinks. Or I think.”
“We are not having this conversation.” Ky turned again and strode off toward the first ballroom and the receiving line. “Not here, not now, and hopefully not ever.”
“Not here, not now, but definitely sometime,” Rafe said to her retreating back. For a short woman, she walked remarkably fast, the crowd opening a lane for her as if she were royalty. Considering what she’d done, she might as well have been.
But then they were in the first ballroom again, and he was engulfed in the elaborate courtesies of rank and station, and Ky, at his side in body only—or so it felt—kept up a murmur of introductions and polite comments that irritated him as much as he admired her poise. He bowed, he shook hands, he chatted with the Premier of this government, the President of that, the Prime Minister, this admiral, that general, a Minister of this and a Secretary of that, being, as best he could, the urbane senior executive while on the inside he felt alternating waves of fury at Hal and fear that Ky would never speak to him again.
Two hours later it was over…though a cluster of ranking officers and politicians still surrounded them, chatting and exchanging contact information and casual invitations, the lights had blinked three times and attendants were clearing the serving tables onto carts. The group moved toward the ballroom doors without breaking up. Gary, waiting there for Rafe, gave him a minute head shake…so evidently the story had spread outside the ballrooms already.
Victory Conditions Page 39
