Vicky Peterwald: Target

by Mike Shepherd

  “The Empress has made no secret that she is pregnant and carrying a boy. She does not strike me as someone who would play second fiddle to anyone, nor accept that her child would do the same. I had assumed the matter would be settled by a decree from the throne saying only males could inherit.”

  “I don’t think my loving stepmom trusts my dad that much. The Bowlingames are quite intent on assuring their primacy.”

  “Only a blind man would miss how grasping they are,” the captain agreed.

  “I am getting used to my stepmom’s grasping at me,” Vicky said. “What with this shooter and the bomb before, that makes five attempts on my life in the last few months, doesn’t it?”

  She eyed Mr. Smith. He shrugged as if he was not into counting.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” said Kit. “Five attempts and five failures.”

  “It’s a game where we have to bat a thousand,” Vicky noted dryly.

  “I see your point. Oh, about the bomb, I’m afraid the report to, ah, the admiral had nothing worth noting in it. No fingerprints. The explosives had no tags in them.”

  “I wouldn’t expect there to be any,” Mr. Smith said, and changed the topic. A bit.

  “What about the flowers? I can’t imagine two dozen red roses are easily found lying around any compartment on a battlecruiser. Did anyone notice them before they became the subject of an attempted murder investigation?”

  Realization dawned in the captain’s eyes. He quickly tapped his commlink. “Captain Kittle, the roses. When did they enter your ship? Or have you taken to growing roses in your garden?”

  “I most certainly have not,” the captain of the Stalker shot back. “I’ll have my people get right on it. Yes! The damn flowers themselves.”

  The chief of staff turned around in his chair to eye Mr. Smith. “Do you have any further suggestions?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “But I have more questions,” Vicky said, and drew him back to facing her. “The admiral had an e-mail address to use, should he choose to accept the second, smaller bribe. It involved his delivering my delicate body to person or persons unknown, for use not identified in the contract. Do you have any idea where he might have left that address?”

  “His computer? Just before we sortied on this mission, he added several layers of security to his personal computer,” the chief of staff said, and so saying appeared to hear what he was saying and connect it to what Vicky had said about the unusual new aspect of the admiral’s corruptibility.

  “His computer now responds only to his voice and a rather long access code. If tampered with, the mass storage will destroy itself. He said it now had an acid ‘suicide’ vial included in the equipment. I thought he was exaggerating. Now, I think not.”

  “Not likely,” Vicky said. “Mr. Smith, is there any chance that you might delude the computer into mistaking you or me for our dead admiral?”

  “Unlikely, ma’am. I will try if you ask, but the outcome would probably be a very smelly mess.”

  “We’ll wait for that. So, I can’t deliver myself to my unknown admirer. I don’t want to deliver myself dead to dear loving Stepmom, and I’m not sure yet about making a grand and living entrance to the palace. What other option do I have?” Vicky mused.

  No one spoke. No one spoke for an uncomfortably long minute.

  Vicky decided to bite the bullet. “Captain, where is the Navy General Staff located?”

  “On Greenfeld, not a mile from the Imperial Palace,” he said.

  Vicky scratched the back of her head. She was over the shakes and starting to enjoy this game of fox and hounds. “A mile from the Imperial Palace is no place to organize and run a conspiracy. As we saw of late, my loving stepmom and her cabal have access to much better computers than the Navy does, and the likelihood of your computers not spilling their guts to the casual passerby is slim to nil. No, the real decisions for the Navy are being made elsewhere. But where, Captain?”

  His face remained deadpan.

  Well, at least he’s not lying to me.

  “Admiral Krätz would often say that this or that question ‘must be left as an exercise for the class.’ So, shall we work through this together?”

  Again, no reaction from the captain.

  “Admiral Krätz said that Port Royal would become a Navy colony. A nice place where NCOs and officers could retire, finish raising their families, and be surrounded by people they knew they could trust. There, they need not fear for petty thievery or the run-of-the-mill nutcases who make civilian life full of sudden and undesirable surprises on so many planets. So, tell me, Captain, Port Royal, was it the second Navy colony? No. Third at least. More likely the fourth, don’t you think?”

  Whatever the captain thought, he said nothing.

  Vicky gave him a few moments to join in her game. When he didn’t, she went on.

  “But where would I find the real Navy General Staff? Let’s see. They would be retired. Yes, they couldn’t be on active duty. If they were, they’d have to be on Greenfeld. They also are likely to be recently retired. Young senior officers with much promise, but their careers suddenly cut short by, what, ill health? Yes, medically retired. Computer, can you make me up a list of the recently medically retired? Oh and throw in admirals or captains otherwise retired after only twenty-five years. Maybe twenty if they were very good.”

  “I will research that,” her computer told Vicky.

  “You needn’t bother,” the captain said. “Why do you want to talk to the real power behind the Navy?”

  “I can think of several reasons. Let me count the ways. First, I don’t really much care for going home to Stepmommy truly and so sincerely dead. Second, we seem to have lost the address for the folks who want me to wave the standard of rebellion for them, and I’m not all that sure that the present moment is the right one for such flag waving. Lastly, I really don’t want to go inside the palace without the full support of the Navy. I strongly suspect that if I am to get out of there alive, I may need help, and lots of it. Can you think of anyplace better for me to find that help than the Navy?”

  “Hmm,” the captain said. “Last night, Admiral Gort shared with me that he found you quite good. I think he would find your present performance very sharp. Possibly dangerously sharp, but quite intelligent, nevertheless. Let me talk with Captain Kittle. It will only require a slight deviation from our direct course to Greenfeld. If we up the acceleration to 1.5 gees, you should arrive at the palace not one second later than you would have otherwise.”

  “Very good, Captain,” Vicky said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should like a bath and a change of clothes. Blood does not become me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. We will likely get under way while you are indisposed.”

  “I would be more indisposed if you did not.”

  CHAPTER 13

  VICKY desperately wanted a bath and clean hair. Kit joined her in the tub to scrub her back and wash her hair. Vicky found her body rather lovely, and the after-bath pat down led from one thing to another. When they were done, a quick shower was in order.

  Kat pouted a bit at being left out, but Vicky promised her the next bath.

  They were well on their way out from Savannah when Vicky was again in a green shipsuit and ready for whatever came next.

  The matter of the roses, of course, was next on the agenda of quite a few people.

  As soon as Vicky reported herself ready, she was invited into the admiral’s day quarters for an inquisition. The chief of staff and the captain of the Stalker were seated around the conference table.

  This time, the head of the table was left for her. Mr. Smith took a seat away from the table to her right. Kit, Kat, and her other staff arrayed themselves in chairs along the near wall.

  They had hardly taken their seats when the Ship’s Lieutenant preceded the Chief Master at Arms in the door. They were followed by a short, scrawny seaman in enough chains that they very likely outweighed him. He had a huge MP at each el
bow, dragging him along, saving him the trouble of lifting all that heavy steel.

  The young seaman looked so terrified that, had he been any older, Vicky would have feared that a heart attack might end the interview before it began.

  The MPs brought him to a shambling halt at the end of the table.

  “This is the storekeeper seaman striker who had the quarterdeck watch when the roses came aboard and who released them to his coconspirator,” the Ship’s Lieutenant announced.

  Every eye in the room focused on the young man. He took a step back under the pressure of their stares.

  “Did you accept the delivery of the roses?” Vicky asked when neither of the captains looked interested in starting the inquiry.

  “Um, um, yes, sir, Your Majesty,” the man stuttered.

  “My father is His Imperial Majesty. I am ‘Your Grace’ the first time you address me. ‘Ma’am’ is fine after that.”

  “Yes, mum, Your Grace, sir.”

  On closer observation, Vicky noted that the man had at least one black eye developing, maybe two. He also was gnawing a split lower lip. Clearly, this was not his first interrogation. The fact that the Ship’s Lieutenant or Chief Master at Arms had not been quick off the blocks to tell her the results of the first suggested it had not been very productive.

  Vicky glanced at her sensor lieutenant and chief. They met her eyes and shook their heads. No weapons on the fellow. No surprise there.

  “Kit, Kat, would you please remove this man’s restraints, both leggings and handcuffs? I don’t think we have anything to fear from him.”

  The two deadly young women moved quickly to unchain the man, and in the process performed a full body search stopping just short of the usual cavities. Done, they stepped away, also shaking their heads. They had found no weapons.

  “Could one of you MPs find a chair for this Sailor?” Vicky said.

  The two Military Police glanced at their Chief Master at Arms, who gave them a curt nod. They quickly scraped a chair across the deck and shoved it under the seaman. He collapsed into it, looking both surprised and weary.

  The looks Vicky got from the police types were of carefully measured scorn. The two captains maintained Navy bland, but there might have been curiosity buried deep behind it.

  Is this a test? Well, I’ll do it the way I want.

  Kris Longknife had once joked with Vicky about the interrogation of some low-level pirates that had consisted of giving them hamburgers and fries. Vicky was half tempted to order up cookies and milk for this poor kid, but she suspected that would lead to open mutiny from the MPs.

  She let the man settle into his seat, take a few deep breaths, then asked an open question.

  “Where did the flowers come from? I know we were tied up at High Chance. Did a florist deliver them?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Your Grace. A florist delivered ’em. I don’t remember the name, but the kid, he was just a delivery boy, or rather girl.”

  Even in his present circumstance, he leered at the memory. “You know how things are around Longknife territory. They let girls do just about anything.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Vicky said dryly. “Go on.”

  “If I had my log, ma’am, I could tell you the name of the florist. I wrote it down, just like I was supposed to. Two dozen red roses. I looked at them and counted them. Two dozen. Beautiful and blood red they were.”

  “Did you run them through the quarterdeck sensors?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “No, sir. I couldn’t. The sensors ain’t been working since before I came aboard, sir.”

  Vicky eyed the captain.

  “Parts were ordered back when the admiral was still the skipper. They’ve been on back order ever since. The, ah, supply situation is very backed up.” The admission seemed to pain the skipper greatly.

  “Yes it is,” the chief of staff agreed.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Smith said. “I seriously doubt the flowers were anything but flowers when they came aboard. Tell me, young man, who did you release the flowers to?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Hoth, sir. I had him sign for them when he collected them.”

  “And what did Commander Hoth look like?” Vicky asked.

  “Tall, sir. Blond hair. Tough-looking fellow. I remember thinking I better keep him happy. He looked like he could bend the likes of me in two.”

  Captain Kittle was fiddling with the controls of the table. It quickly showed a picture of Lieutenant Commander Hoth, the ship’s missile officer. He had dark hair and was short with a developing middle-age spread.

  The two captains and Vicky shook their heads. The Ship’s Lieutenant and the Chief Master at Arms craned their heads to see what the officers were looking at, and looked alarmed when they caught a glimpse of the real Commander Hoth.

  “We had the same problem on the Fury,” Vicky said. “There was someone wandering around with as many ID’s as they wanted, passing themselves off as people who belonged there and making three tries at killing me. That was the main reason I ended up on the Wasp and not the Fury.”

  Vicky went on, “Seaman, I assume you ran the Commander’s ID through your clipboard.”

  “Yes, sir. It said he was who he said he was.”

  There was a sour look among the officers present. “I think we have been outteched again,” Vicky concluded dryly.

  “Well, whoever this tall blond is, he is still on my ship, and we will have him,” Captain Kittle said.

  “Are you sure?” Vicky asked.

  “No one crossed the quarterdeck except your team and the admiral,” the skipper said with the kind of absolute surety that captains often muster.

  “There is another way off the ship?” Vicky said. “One of Kris Longknife’s people, a cub of a girl, snuck off the Wasp by way of the midpier tie-down. The one that brings aboard the water, power, and comm lines, as well as takes off the sewage. That’s a decent-sized tie-down. No doubt the putative Herr Hoth would have to bend his head to pass that way, but it is a quick way ashore.”

  “It is locked down, and we have it covered by observation cameras,” the captain snapped.

  The Ship’s Lieutenant looked miserable as he failed to meet his captain’s glare.

  “Don’t we?” did not have the usual captain confidence behind it.

  “Sir, the camera in that compartment quit working recently and we don’t have the necessary parts to repair it.”

  “Exactly when did it stop working?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “About three hours before we made port at High Savannah,” the Ship’s Lieutenant reported, miserably.

  “I’d like to have a look at it,” Mr. Smith said, and headed for the door. He was quickly followed by the Ship’s Lieutenant, the Chief Master at Arms, and both of the MPs. This left a very confused seamen striker storekeeper sitting alone in his chair.

  “What do we do with this fellow?” Vicky asked. “He’s not going anywhere with us in space.”

  “He’s the only one who’s seen this impostor Hoth. He might want to kill him,” Captain Kittle observed.

  The poor seaman swallowed hard where he sat.

  “I would be reluctant to consign him to the tender mercies of the brig for protective custody,” Vicky said. “I don’t think the MPs much like him from the looks of his face.”

  “No doubt,” the chief of staff admitted. “He likely does need to report to sick bay.”

  “I could advise the ship’s medical officer to tend to him and see that he stays safe,” the skipper said.

  “Kit, would you escort this seaman to sick bay?” Vicky ordered. “See that he gets there and give his personal commlink our number. If he has any trouble, he should call us.”

  “I would be glad to do so, Your Grace.”

  And so a man who entered the admiral’s quarters in abject terror left with a smile and hope that he might live to finish his Navy tour.

  Vicky only wished she could be so optimistic about her future.

  Mr. Smith return
ed with a glum-looking bunch of security types. “The wire to the camera was corroded,” he reported. “It looked like normal wear and tear until I tested it. I carry a bit of that corrosive at all times for just that sort of duty.”

  “So our assassin has fled the ship,” the captain said.

  “Or wants us to assume he has,” Mr. Smith said. “Having the option to leave is not the same as leaving. I would prefer to operate on the assumption that he is still with us until we have clear evidence that he is not.”

  That left the room silent for a long moment.

  “Humor me for a moment,” the chief of staff said. “How did this bomb evade all of our best sniffers and sensors?”

  “May I look at the full report?” Mr. Smith asked, and was promptly granted access.

  “As I expected, notice that none of the long-stemmed roses that survived the blast are anywhere near as long as one would expect of a long-stemmed rose. My personal observation before the explosion was that the roses were as tall as one would expect.”

  “I’ll agree with you on that,” Vicky said.

  “But it appears that a good fifteen centimeters of those rose stems were explosive.” He paused, apparently lost in thought as he gazed at the ceiling, but Vicky was pretty sure he was interrogating his computer. “Twenty-four stems about that long would have just the right amount of explosives for what we saw in the hall. It was mainly intended to fragment the vase and send shards flying around the room. Everything in its right proportions. Nothing to excess.”

  Mr. Smith paused. “Now, the vase. How did that get aboard ship? The young storekeeper’s notes say the roses arrived in a box. No mention of a vase.”

  Captain Kittle looked ready to strangle on his next words. “It seems that I am responsible for the vase coming aboard my ship.”

  CHAPTER 14

  TO say the chief of staff was shocked at that admission would be the understatement of a lifetime. Vicky studied the look on the man’s face. She set herself to memorizing it. Later, she would practice it in front of a mirror. That kind of sincere dismay at events was so rare in her world that she greatly doubted she’d ever have another chance to observe it.