Vicky Peterwald: Target

by Mike Shepherd

  “Can’t you sweep for bugs?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “Are you willing to bet your life that our equipment has spotted all their equipment?” was the admiral’s quick answer.

  Vicky looked around at the broken greenery. Several beautiful azalea bushes were in great need of pruning, or more likely, replacement. “You need a new place to meet.”

  “Walk with me,” the admiral said curtly.

  Vicky let him lead her through the garden walks. A Navy commander now led them by a good twenty paces . . . with the chief and his black box at his elbow. Mr. Smith, Kat, and the three Marines trailed them at a similar distance.

  “I am fully up to speed concerning your earlier discussion,” the admiral said. “Our mutual associates agree that breathing is good and that you should continue to take deep breaths. After what we just observed, it’s clear that will not be a simple task.”

  The admiral paused to scowl at their surroundings. “I take this as a personal challenge. And I do not lose gracefully.”

  “I prefer not to lose at all,” Vicky said, since her failure to continue breathing would be a personal tragedy of life-changing proportions.

  “The Navy has been required to establish itself at the palace. We have a duty officer, a situation room, and a communications center, among other things. They have been set up over time and are scattered most inefficiently throughout that warren of a place. I have been trying to move them all into a central location. I think the rooms just below and above your suites would be perfect, don’t you?”

  “And while a lieutenant is far junior to an admiral,” Vicky said with a grin, “in palace politics, I expect that a Grand Duchess can swing a lot more weight than a Navy officer. At least, I intend to come out swinging.”

  “Good. We will also need room for a decent-sized Marine detachment. I’ll want to rotate platoons through the palace. It’s a poisonous place. I wouldn’t want to keep any young trooper subject to it for too long.”

  “Any chance you could rotate out a young lieutenant?” Vicky asked, trying to sound hopeful.

  “You were born to the place, remember?”

  “Only too well.”

  Behind them, there was a bit of a row. A lieutenant of the palace guard had belatedly shown up with six black-and-reds. He seemed to want to put Vicky under either house arrest or a tighter security perimeter. Either one of which would make continuing this conversation impossible.

  Mr. Smith’s persuasion was apparently being lost on the lieutenant’s stubbornness.

  Vicky raised her voice. “We are quite satisfied with our present protection. Where were you when we might have needed you? Now, away with you, or we will raise the subject of your coming late to our need before our father, the Emperor.”

  The lieutenant paled at the threat . . . and went away.

  “They will be back, likely with a colonel,” the admiral said, and went on with haste. “Those baubles you acquired on Savannah, we’ve been looking into them. Very fascinating. Especially the add-ons that your Mr. Smith made. Very convoluted, but very interesting.” Here the admiral paused to signal the said Mr. Smith to join them.

  He quickly did and the admiral brought him into the convoluted conversation. “Did you sew those add-ons to the baubles, or did you buy them?”

  “I paid a pretty penny for them,” the mercenary said, catching on quickly to the strange drift their talk was taking. “Though I learned how to display them to their best effect, the actual lace is far beyond my knitting ability.”

  “We thought so. We have some of our best working to re-create that fascinating pattern. We found a few stitches that appear to have been dropped and one that, if you pulled hard enough, will make it all unravel.”

  Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow. “Those I bought it from said it was an old family secret design. I guess they weren’t kidding when they said I could never do it myself.”

  “I still have a version of the bauble,” Vicky said, resting a hand on her chest where her computer hung.

  “When you can, we will have to arrange for you to have one of our seamstresses alter it for you,” the admiral said with more than a hint of a scowl directed over his shoulder at the palace.

  “I doubt our mutual friends had anything to do with this,” Mr. Smith said quickly. “I bought my copy long ago and from a faraway little cottage source.”

  Vicky made a face at him as she shook her head slowly. If her stepmother had connections all the way to Savannah, she likely had her fingers in a whole lot of shady pies. Who’s to say she didn’t know more about Mr. Smith’s source for computer software than he did?

  “I look forward to meeting with your seamstress,” Vicky said. “And I think Mr. Smith should have an appointment, too.”

  “Are you sure?” the spy said.

  “Do you trust your seamstresses, Admiral?” Vicky asked, sure of the answer.

  “You saw the facilities we offer our best workers,” he said. “There are Sailors who will never be Navy, but after a tour, they are very glad to join us in our other establishments and many of them work out quite well in a place that offers them steady work, a nice, safe place to live, and a chance to bring up a family without worrying what might happen next.” The admiral finished with a raised eyebrow.

  Vicky eyed Mr. Smith. He’d been with her on Bayern and seen what she saw of the Navy colony. Maybe all of it wasn’t as idyllic and peaceful as what they’d seen, but it sure beat anything that she’d seen lately in the rest of the Empire.

  “We will both be available to meet with your seamstress as soon as possible,” Vicky finally said.

  Unsaid was “if we’re going to trust the Navy with our lives, we can’t hold back.”

  Mr. Smith nodded acceptance of her will.

  In a short walk, they left the trees behind and returned to the esplanade. “Computer, contact the majordomo.”

  “Ma’am, he is not on net.”

  “He isn’t on net?” Vicky squeaked.

  “Quite a few of the Imperial ‘servants’ fancy themselves too important to be at the beck and call of just anyone,” the admiral said. “I don’t know, maybe the Emperor has his own way to get ahold of them, but so far, I don’t.”

  “How do you find them, then?” Vicky asked.

  “I have an aide-de-camp,” the admiral said, with a hint of a smile. “A certain Marine captain got into a bit of a dustup on Palau. He has this rather spectacular scar down the side of his face,” the admiral said, cutting a finger sharply down his right cheek. “Story is that he machine-gunned fifty farmers in retaliation.”

  “Did he?” Vicky asked.

  “That is the story. Who knows what the truth is. However, the story around the palace is that he did and that gives him a most fearsome reputation with the pantaloons running around this place. When I send him to get something done, people hop.”

  “Then, please, sir, have your cutthroat pirate deliver the majordomo to my suite as soon as it may be practical . . . for you. Not him.”

  “It will be done, Your Grace,” the admiral said, and not suppressing a grin, began to talk into his own commlink. “I believe I interrupted your bath when I arrived. I would suggest that you delay your bath until the majordomo arrives. I assure you, it will not be an inconvenient delay.”

  CHAPTER 19

  CAPTAIN Morgan—even the name hinted of buckets of blood and flaming rum—did, in fact, present the majordomo within fifteen minutes of Vicky’s getting back to her quarters.

  It may have helped that he had four burly Marines to help the servant along.

  No doubt if she did this too often, the self-important fellow might take to having his own palace guards to protect him. But that fun would have to be left for another day.

  “What do you want?” he demanded when Captain Morgan brought him front and center to Vicky.

  Vicky was examining her dress options for dinner tonight and was not happy to start with. She turned to him and silently raised an eyebrow at what
he’d skipped.

  Faced with the obvious option of being held there until hell froze over, and not looking like the type to miss a meal, he bowed to her, and said, “What service may I perform for Your Grace?”

  “Better,” Vicky said. “No doubt you will do even better next time. I require the rooms on the floors below and above this floor.”

  “Whatever for?” had way too much doubt in it that a young woman could make good use of that much space. This man clearly had a problem with the other half of the human race.

  “We are a serving officer of the Greenfeld Navy. It has come to our attention that the Navy’s present facilities are scattered inefficiently throughout the palace. It is our desire to change that. We also do not want to have to wander throughout the palace as if we were on a treasure hunt whenever we need the service of our Navy. Are we clear on that?”

  “Your Grace, yes, the Navy has been shoehorned in a bit here, a bit there, but have mercy on me! The needs of the palace are growing much faster than the palace is. I must have time. In six months, maybe we can arrange something.”

  “By sunset tomorrow you will have arranged what we request and require. We will be discussing your achievement this evening over dinner with our father, His Imperial Majesty, no doubt.”

  For a moment, the subservient mask of the majordomo was almost overcome by a wave of rage, but, good servant that he was, he held his visage under control.

  “Your wish is my command, Your Grace. It will be done.”

  “Thank you,” Vicky said, gracious in victory. For the moment.

  Still in his bow, the majordomo backed himself out of the room. Vicky found she kind of liked that.

  Business done, she took a moment to examine Captain Morgan. The scar on his face was rather sexy. “Thank you for your services, good sir,” she said, bestowing a smile on him.

  “Anytime, Your Grace. Admiral Waller tells me I’m to work as much for you as for him in the future.”

  “Very good,” Vicky said, wondering just what kind of work she could put him to. There was the bath that she needed, and the captain looked eminently capable at washing her back . . . and other things.

  But she remembered Admiral Krätz’s opinion of slutty women. It might be a good idea to preserve her reputation at court. At least for a few days.

  “Now, if you will allow me, I must prepare for tonight’s banquet.”

  “Do you have an escort, Your Grace?” the captain asked.

  Vicky had planned to go it alone. She’d learned to stand on her own two feet very well during her time with the fleet.

  “Is an escort expected?”

  “I know many young women who consider it a damn nuisance, but it does seem to be a requirement. One that is growing more required with each passing week.”

  “I assume you have a sword handy somewhere here in the palace?”

  “Always.”

  “Then you may accompany me to the banquet tonight. Please find out when it is, by the way.”

  “They always start at twenty hundred hours, Lieutenant, or eight o’clock, Your Grace,” he said with a dangerous smile.

  “Decisions, decisions,” Vicky said, putting an indecisive finger to her lips. “From the looks of this wardrobe, I’ll have to be a Grand Duchess tonight.”

  The captain glanced at the dresses hung up for her choice. All had full skirts with tight bodices. For a brief second, a frown escaped to his face. He covered it quickly, and said, “When in Rome, they say,” as he turned for the door.

  Clearly, the palace and the Navy were on opposite courses concerning women’s fashions.

  That was something Vicky would have to give much thought to.

  She adjourned to the bath, which, to Kat’s sorrow, was done quickly and purely for cleansing purposes.

  With one towel wrapped around her hair and another around her body, Vicky returned to her dressing room to ponder what to wear tonight.

  Most of her uniforms, including her formal dress, had been turned to atoms along with all the good people of the Fury. On the Stalker, she had succeeded in expanding her collection of whites and khakis, but there had been no formal wear for a woman officer.

  Father, of course, had only sent her court attire, if “attire” was the right word for it.

  “There is a problem, mademoiselle?” Kat asked, slipping into the French accent she was so good at. And sexy as well.

  “These dresses are rather skimpy, don’t you think?”

  “But, mademoiselle, I thought you would be glad to wear nothing but your birthday suit to dinner.”

  “If I had the right man?” Vicky said.

  “And the fine Capitaine?”

  “Would be a fine escort for just such a dinner, but we are at court, my little flower, and we must do as they do.”

  Kat swept a hand over all the dresses before Vicky. “Is this not what they wear at court?”

  Vicky nodded. “But not in the Navy.”

  “Ah, the lieutenant is not willing to play the doll of the courtesans.”

  “That, I think, is the truth. A Grand Duchess does not have to be a slave to others, and I won’t be a slave to anyone.”

  There was a knock at the door. Kit opened it to find half a dozen young women standing there. “We have been appointed the Grand Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting, and we have come to dress her,” the eldest one, who might be all of twenty, said.

  Vicky looked at them, eyed the dresses, and decided it was likely to take six people to get her properly into one of them for dinner.

  “Admit them,” she said, and to a wave of giggles, the six young women invaded the quiet of Vicky’s suite.

  Each of the six had her own opinion of which dress Vicky should wear for the evening. None of them, of course, gave a thought to the missing Navy formal evening dress. Vicky resigned herself to a dress of gold and gossamer stuff that seemed, depending on the light, to be transparent.

  “What underwear do I have?” Vicky asked.

  “Underwear, Your Grace?” Several of the girls giggled, raising their skirts to show nothing beneath them.

  “Underwear is for the working class. We in the palace live free,” the oldest of them assured Vicky.

  What kind of place is Dad running?

  Or is it Stepmom rather than Dad?

  Vicky had been a bit wild before she got shipped off to the Navy. Well, a lot wild. But she’d been breaking the rules and enjoying the forbidden fruit.

  It didn’t look like anything was forbidden just here and just now.

  But is this freedom for women or something a whole lot uglier?

  Vicky had bridled at the puritanism of the Navy. At least at first. Admiral Krätz was a single-minded prig as far as Ensign Peterwald had been concerned.

  But that young ensign had never known what it felt like to finish a job well done. Nor to find that she could stand on her own two feet.

  Vicky found herself coming to terms with just how different the young girl who was shipped off to the fleet was from the older, sadder woman who returned.

  Kat brought her a pair of lacy underthings that would hardly meet fleet requirements but met Vicky’s quite well as she slipped into them.

  When the senior lady-in-waiting started to object, Vicky quelled her with a look that was straight off Admiral Krätz’s face.

  “Now, the dress,” Vicky said.

  They lifted the golden web over her head, then settled the hoops around her and began tying her into the bodice. Vicky glanced down.

  There was pink showing at each breast.

  She pulled the top up. Or tried.

  It wouldn’t come up.

  “I’ve got a problem here,” she said, and the senior tire woman came around from pulling her string tight enough to take Vicky’s breath away.

  “There is a problem?” didn’t seem to have recognition in it.

  Then Vicky studied the young woman before her. Her bodice was tight and her breasts were lifted up and out just about as far as
was womanly possible.

  And a bit of pink areola peaked out from each nipple.

  Vicky pointed at her own peeking pink. “I’m showing.”

  “But of course. That is the style. You will see, your mother, the Empress, will be just as free as we are. As you are.”

  So this was dearest Stepmommy’s doing.

  Vicky examined what she’d learned in the last few moments the way she’d been taught to. A tactical problem.

  One. Women were being turned into all-too-available whores.

  Two. Stepmommy dearest was encouraging it.

  That didn’t seem logical. Dad had always had a wandering eye. So Stepmom had caught it. How was she holding it? Especially if she was encouraging all this pulchritude to be on display.

  Familiarity bred contempt?

  Where sex was concerned? Vicky had her doubts.

  Strong doubts.

  Vicky hunted for the third important point she needed to connect.

  COMPUTER, ARE ANY OF THE EMPRESS’S FAMILY THAT ARE INVOLVED IN BUSINESS WOMEN?

  NO, MA’AM. ALL OF THE FAMILY WHO ARE ACTIVE IN ITS VARIOUS BUSINESSES ARE MEN.

  THANK YOU, COMPUTER, Vicky thought.

  She was being jerked around as the ladies-in-waiting tried to take up the last millimeter of slack in her bodice. “Leave me room to breathe,” Vicky said. “I need air to think.”

  “Think? How funny of you,” the senior girl laughed. “What man wants to talk to a thinking woman? Or marry one?”

  Someone had clearly done a lot of brainwashing. Assuming these girls had been allowed to keep enough brains to bear washing.

  The admiral had said the palace was full of poison. Vicky was now developing her own opinion of just how bad it was.

  “Enough. I say it’s tight enough. Kat, find me a scarf. Golden like the dress.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the assassin said, and went to obey.

  “Whatever for?” the senior so-called lady said.

  “I will show you,” Vicky said when Kat returned with one in only a moment.

  Vicky rolled it up and tossed it around her neck. Then she tucked the two ends into the front of her bodice, converting the dress from totally obscene to merely eye-catching.