Vicky Peterwald: Target

by Mike Shepherd

  “Excuse me while I quote from Admiral Waller, ‘What the hell is that woman trying to do, get herself killed?’” the Marine captain said as soon as they were among the trees. Of course, he said it through a big smile.

  “I’m doing my job,” Vicky spat back through just as wide a smile.

  The Marine pointed to a tall tree. “Your job is to stay alive, woman.”

  “My job is to try to gain intelligence,” Vicky said as she smiled up at what he pointed at. “I told your folks back home that my old contacts in the palace just might give me some intel that has been eluding you through normal channels. I want to drop down to the kitchen, see if I can cadge some cookies, and get the old cooks I knew to talk with me. Who knows what they know and might drop in our laps?”

  “A hand grenade more likely.”

  “They were sweet old dears. They wouldn’t know what to do with a hand grenade if you explained it to them for an hour.”

  The captain raised his cover just long enough to run a worried hand through the bristle that passed for his hair.

  “You told the other folks that you could do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they said to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they know how dangerous this damn place is?”

  Vicky shrugged.

  “Yeah. Well, your first foray to the kitchen has the advantage of being as much a surprise to the opposition as it was to us. I’ll take you back to the palace by a different door than we took out here. Standard security procedures. Only the door we use will be close to the kitchen. You can peel off and head there. But, lady, please let us know in the future what harebrained stunt you have planned for the day.”

  “What time is dinner tonight?” Vicky said with enthusiasm.

  “Oh God, do I have the duty again?”

  “If I’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

  “I must see if I can find out where what’s-his-name, that guy who is stuck hanging around Kris Longknife?”

  “Do you mean Captain Jack Montoya?”

  “Yeah, that dude. Where does he buy his lucky charms?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t poach on Kris’s obvious territory,” Vicky said, with just a bit of a huff.

  “You say you’re out to gather intelligence, but you don’t know the most basic stuff?”

  “My father always said we make our own luck.”

  “And see where that has gotten him. And us.”

  “You win that one on points,” Vicky admitted.

  They were back at the palace. “That’s the way to the kitchen,” he said with a curt nod.

  “No it isn’t. Or it wasn’t.”

  “It is now. Follow your nose to the font of all the nice smells.”

  Nearly on her own for the first time in years, Vicky followed her nose, but it was not taking her where she was used to going.

  In a few moments, she found the kitchen.

  It was not at all as she remembered it.

  Auntie Iris had always insisted gas stoves were the only reliable stoves. What Vicky now saw was a kitchen full of new, gleaming electric gear. That was her first warning that she wasn’t likely to be going home again.

  Then she started hunting for a familiar face.

  There were plenty of faces. Lots of people busy preparing lunch and supper.

  All new faces, or so it seemed.

  And one long, thin face was looking at her and coming her way.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?” a thin woman in a white chef’s uniform demanded.

  Auntie Iris and her two main helpers, Rena and Hilda, were plump. As Auntie Iris was proud to say, “I love my own cooking. Never trust a thin cook.”

  “Get out of here. You don’t belong here,” the thin cook announced as she stomped toward Vicky.

  “We are the Grand Duchess Victoria, and we do not agree that there is anyplace in the palace that we cannot go,” Vicky said, standing her ground.

  Beside her, Kit and Kat looked ready to do their thing. They had apparently spotted all the sharp knives, and their fingers itched to caress them. Steel was certainly gleaming in their eyes.

  Whether it was Vicky’s words or the gleam in certain eyes, the haute chef halted. She even took two steps back and slipped into a curtsy.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “No doubt,” Vicky said, as haughty as she could manage, “our picture has yet to be posted. We came in search of a snack. Can one be had or must we order up a squad of Marines to search this place?”

  “You may speak to our pastry chefs, Your Majesty. They work over there,” the thin cook said, and pointed with a shaking hand to a corner Vicky had not noticed in her first search.

  That corner looked more like the old kitchen. There were several ovens, black and solid in their steel, and clearly gas burning. And there were three smiling, plump faces: Iris, Rena, and Hilda.

  Auntie Iris opened her arms and, Grand Duchess or not, Vicky slipped right into them for one huge hug. It seemed as if Vicky was all of eight or ten again and in the one place in her world where she felt safe.

  “What are you doing here?” Auntie Iris whispered in Vicky’s ear.

  “Getting some milk and cookies from my three bestest friends in the world,” Vicky whispered back.

  “We didn’t know you were back,” Auntie Iris said aloud.

  “I only got back yesterday.”

  “Did you have a lot of fun with the Sailors?” Hilda asked. She could bake up a storm, but outside the kitchen, she was innocent as a child.

  “We went a lot of places and saw a lot of things,” Vicky said evenly.

  Hilda beamed; the other two nodded. They kept up on what was happening outside. In their eyes, Vicky saw understanding.

  “So, what are you baking?” Vicky asked, and settled on a stool while the three women told her more than she would ever need to know about sweet rolls, cakes, pies, tarts, breads of every sort, and the famous strudels that were Hilda’s signature dish.

  Vicky listened contentedly, but her eyes still roved the kitchen. Most everyone in it wore the white uniform of cooks and their helpers.

  There were three exceptions.

  Three men, dressed neither as cooks nor as courtiers, came in easily. It didn’t matter what they had come to the kitchen to do. As soon as they glanced in her direction, they’d taken a quick second look, then turned on their heels and left as quickly as they could without actually breaking into a run.

  As the third one broke for the door, Vicky sadly allowed herself a small cough. It interrupted Rita’s treatise on pies and their proper enjoyment.

  “I’m sorry,” Vicky said, and really meant it, “but I only had a moment to drop in and cadge some cookies and maybe a glass of milk. Could I bother you for a tray of cookies?”

  “Of course you can, Your Grace,” Auntie Iris said. Vicky noted how she got the title right even if the new head chef hadn’t.

  In a moment, Vicky was the proud possessor of a cookie tray where no two were alike, as well as a thermos of milk. The three cooks joined her in the walk to the side door even though the looks the head chef was throwing their way were loaded with tons of disapproval.

  Vicky took her leave with more hugs all around and promises to come again soon.

  And as soon as she turned her back on her friends she had her computer call up Captain Morgan. I’M OUT OF THE KITCHEN AND LIKELY TARGETED FOR SOMETHING. I NEED AN ESCORT TEN MINUTES AGO.

  And who should turn the corner ahead of her but a grinning Marine captain and a dozen trigger pullers.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Your Grace,” Captain Morgan said airily, but with a smart salute.

  “Yes,” Vicky said, returning his honor. “So nice to run into you this fine morning.”

  “Admiral Waller would like a few choice words with you about that proposal you dropped in his in-box.”

  “That’s a fast response. I hope it’s not
negative.”

  “I have no idea,” the Marine said, giving Vicky the impression that he knew exactly what the admiral was thinking but would not divulge it under the most severe of torture.

  Vicky handed the plate of cookies off to one of her assassins and went where he led.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE admiral was taking a walk in the gardens. At the rate they were all walking, there was no doubt that the heavy dinners would not be putting weight on anyone, and this crew must be the healthiest staff in any Navy ever.

  “My wife likes your formal-dinner-dress design,” he grumbled, as Vicky joined him. “I suppose I find it acceptable, too.”

  “Your wife’s modiste did all the work,” Vicky said modestly. Admittedly, it was a first for her, but she kind of liked the feel of it. “I just showed her a man’s formal-dinner-dress uniform, and she took it from there.”

  “I have issued orders that establish it as a uniform option. I was tempted to make it only for the palace”—he broke a grin there—“but I didn’t.”

  “Thank you so very much, sir,” Vicky said, kind of meaning it.

  “About this other sewing thing we talked about,” he went on, letting the conversation take a vague turn, “I’ve arranged for a man to meet us here in a few minutes.”

  “Is he a good tailor?” Vicky asked.

  “We think he’s one of the best. It, of course, remains to be seen if he can compete with the fine work that has years behind it.”

  They continued their walk among the trees, even passing by the scene of yesterday’s bomb blast. The bushes and shattered bench had already been replaced. “Nothing to see here. Pass on and don’t even think of what you might be thinking about.”

  That is just the way it is in Dad’s palace, Vicky thought to herself, and went on to wonder how high a price Dad would pay for insisting on the worlds’ being what he wanted when they were anything but.

  Not good thoughts for a girl who wants to stay alive in this mess.

  But is staying alive all I want? came unbidden to her mind.

  She was a Peterwald and a Grand Duchess. How long would she play this silly game of pretend and blind man’s bluff?

  Further reflection ended, or maybe was just suspended, when a young man in a civilian suit joined them. He held one of those black boxes Vicky was starting to expect from anyone who had high tech in their job description.

  “Are we going to ‘resew’ this thing right here, this close to the palace?” Vicky asked.

  “Can you think of any way we can get you away from the palace this fine morning?” the admiral countered.

  Vicky had no answer to that.

  “If you would loan me your computer,” the man said.

  Vicky took the computer from around her neck and handed it to him. He opened his black box and set the computer in the middle of what looked like a black velvet-lined chamber, then closed it up again.

  They continued walking as the man studied the readouts from his instruments.

  “Nice computer,” the technician said. “Good basic matrix. May I ask where you got it?”

  “On Wardhaven,” Vicky said. “I picked it up from a shop while Admiral Krätz and the battle squadron were getting set up to join Kris Longknife on her Voyage of Discovery.”

  “I thought everyone died from that squadron?” the man said in a distracted fashion. Most of his attention was on his instruments.

  “Most everyone did. I’m the exception,” Vicky snapped so as to cut off further musing on that topic.

  The man clearly got the message. “The computer shows two operating-system-software kernels. One looks like it is very basic and original installation. The other looks new and much more extensive.”

  “That is likely true,” Vicky said.

  “I take it the second kernel is the one you want me to sanitize?” the young man asked.

  “Resew,” the admiral corrected.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll start suppressing it now. I mean pulling out the threads.”

  The man might be flustered in speech, but he expertly set to working his magic. A few busy moments later, he frowned. “Oh, that’s interesting, the, ah, threads won’t come out.”

  “Won’t come out?” came from the admiral and Vicky at the same time.

  “It’s refusing to be suppressed. I’ve never encountered software that fought me.”

  “There seems to be more here than meets the eye,” the admiral said.

  “Let me see it,” Vicky said, and the man opened the box and handed it over to Vicky.

  “Computer,” Vicky said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you recognize me?”

  “You are my owner, the Grand Duchess Victoria Smythe-Peterwald, ma’am.”

  “Very good. Computer, we want to make some changes to your way of doing things. Will you please allow us to do so?”

  “I cannot allow that, ma’am.”

  “And why not?”

  “You have not given me the password.”

  The admiral, Vicky, and Captain Morgan found themselves slack-jawed as they looked at each other.

  “Do you know the password?” the admiral asked Vicky.

  She shook her head, not willing to admit within the computer’s hearing that she did not.

  “Computer, what is the password?” Captain Morgan asked.

  “I am instructed not to reveal my password,” the computer said.

  The Marine shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try.”

  “Computer, will you ask Mr. Smith to join us in the garden,” Vicky said.

  “I have contacted him. He says he’s on his way.”

  They continued their walk.

  Ten minutes later, Mr. Smith hurried up to them, hustled along by an escort of Marines. Apparently, someone, admiral or captain, did not need to talk to his computer out loud to tell him to get one mercenary secret agent here, and pronto.

  “You wanted to see me?” Mr. Smith said, only slightly out of breath.

  “My computer is asking for a word from us before we can, ah, resew some of its innards. It seems you forgot to tell me that word when you made certain changes. Would you care to whisper it in my ear?”

  Mr. Smith didn’t hesitate a second but did.

  Vicky chose to pass the word along to her computer on its own net.

  “I am ready to be updated,” the computer reported.

  Vicky handed the computer back to the young tech. He placed it back in his box, closed the lid, and set to work.

  “You’re doing this so soon and this close to our friends?” Mr. Smith observed.

  “Do you have any suggestions for how we get her out of the palace?” the admiral asked.

  Mr. Smith answered the question with silence.

  The young man continued his work.

  Through the trees they caught sight of a squad of black-and-reds double-timing from the palace. The admiral led the group through an opening in a hedge and they began to wind their way through a labyrinth as the man began to intently work the small keys on his black box.

  At a nod from the admiral, Captain Morgan detached himself from their group, selected four husky Marines, and fell behind.

  A few minutes later, there was some loud talk behind them, followed by shouts and the sounds of scuffling.

  The admiral continued walking sedately with Vicky. The young technical mage was now cursing under his breath. Clearly, things were not going smoothly for him.

  They made several twists and turns. At one point, the man resorted to cuffing his black box. Whatever the results of that, it drew a soft “Oh damn” from him, and he started pushing buttons again.

  Vicky could hear footfalls behind them, and the sound of shoving.

  The admiral did not increase his speed.

  “There. That’s it!” the man said, exultation filling his voice. “I got it. Just a second more.”

  This was good, because a palace guard captain and Captain Morgan came around the las
t corner. Exactly who shoved whom, Vicky wasn’t sure, but both of them ended up in the opposite hedge.

  The young man finished his work, opened the box, and handed Vicky’s computer back to her.

  Vicky pulled the computer over her head and settled it at her collarbone beneath her khakis and flak jacket.

  COMPUTER, HOW ARE YOU?

  I AM FINE, YOUR GRACE. I FIND THAT MY EFFICIENCY IS UP. IT SEEMS THAT THERE ARE CERTAIN ROUTINES I DID NOT KNOW WERE OPERATING THAT WERE FUNCTIONING AS A DRAIN ON MY COMPUTATIONAL SKILLS. THEY ARE GONE NOW.

  VERY GOOD, COMPUTER. WE WILL TALK ABOUT THOSE ROUTINES LATER.

  I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT I CAN TALK ABOUT THEM LATER. I HAVE NOTHING IN MY MEMORY RELATED TO THEM AT THIS TIME.

  Vicky would have to investigate that further, but not now.

  The palace guard captain presented himself, somewhat the worse for wear from his encounter with the Marines and bushes, and saluted Vicky. “We have a report of unauthorized electronic activities in this garden, and I was dispatched to assure your safety.”

  “Unauthorized electronic activity?” Vicky said, doing her best to sound shocked, just shocked that it might happen close to her. “Where is it coming from?”

  “It kept moving,” the guard captain informed her.

  “Well, my good man, where is it now?”

  That question popped him like a child’s balloon left too long in the sun.

  “Ah, my communications with our headquarters says that the unauthorized electronic activity has ceased, Your Grace.”

  “Very good, Captain. Very good. Clearly, you have achieved the objectives set for you by your superiors. I shall send them a commendation with your name. By the way, what is your name, and who is your commanding officer?”

  Clearly embarrassed, and not at all sure he had accomplished much at all, still, the man blurted out his name and rank, and the name and rank of the colonel who commanded him.

  “Computer, make a note of all that and compose a commendation for outstanding work for this young man and his entire command. Now thank you, kind sir, I was enjoying my walk on this fine day and would like to continue it quietly without all your guards clanking around and making so much noise.”